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ANNE    CARMEL 


Harnett  waited  with  his  head  uncovered." 


ANNE    CARMEL 


BY 

GWENDOLEN    OVERTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  HERITAGE  OF  UNREST  " 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  ARTHUR  I.  KELLER 


Nefo  2f0rfe 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1903 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1903, 
BY  THE  MACMILLA.N  COMPANY. 


Set  up,  electrotyped,  and  published  June,  1903. 


Norton  oti 

J.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Harriett  meets  Anne  for  the  first  time     .        .        .        .        .31 

"'Anne,'  he  told  her  then,  'you  have  said  a  great  many 
things  that  have  hurt  me  to-day  —  but  none  so  much  as 
this'" 76 

"  The  Cure  stepped  in  front  of  Thome  and  lifted  his  crucifix  "     133 

"  She  accepted  it  all  quietly,  making  no  useless  protestations 

or  complaints  " 283 

" '  He  has  given  up  love  for  your  sake,'  Cecily  finished,  '  and 

now  he  intends  to  forego  his  ambition  and  his  future ' "     317 

"  Harnett  waited  with  his  head  uncovered  "    .        .        .        .    333 


'•* 


AKN"E   OARMEL 


CHAPTER  I 

FROM  the  shimmering  tin  spire  of  the  church  of 
St.  Hilaire  the  Angelus  was  toning  out  the  close  of 
the  day.  Over  miles  upon  miles  of  farms  and  forest, 
of  hills  and  valleys,  of  river  and  creeks,  there  was  no 
other  bell  to  answer  it.  It  had  the  country  far  and 
near  to  itself,  and  at  each  stroke  of  the  tongue  against 
the  pealing  resonance  of  the  bronze  the  faint,  thin 
yellow  of  the  afterglow  seemed  to  quiver  and  fade  a 
little  away.  For  the  summer  hours  of  ringing  the 
bell  were  still  in  effect,  though  five  o'clock  was  now 
somewhat  before  the  rising,  and  seven  somewhat  after 
the  setting,  of  the  sun. 

Until  the  last  vibration  had  spread  off  into  the  dis 
tance  of  the  shadowing  hills,  Jean  Carmel  and  Anne 
stood  waiting.  Behind  the  woods  of  maple  and  elm 
and  aspen  across  the  river,  the  western  sky  was  pulsing 
yet  with  hot  color.  It  was  reflected  over  the  smooth 
water  and  the  shining  line  of  beach,  and  showed  the 
priest  and  his  sister,  two  fine  young  types  of  that  race 
which  first  made  its  way  through  the  fastnesses  of 
the  Five  Nations,  across  the  vast  prairies  beyond,  to 


2  ANNE   CARMEL 

the  northerly  ranges  of  the  Cordillera  in  the  west, 
of  the  race  which  gave  to  the  history  of  the  New 
World  the  greater  part  of  its  most  picturesque  and 
romantic  figures,  Champlain,  Frontenac,  La  Salle, 
Maisonneuve,  and  those  hero-martyrs  in  a  dubious 
cause,  the  Jesuit  missionaries  of  the  French  colonies  ; 
to  say  nothing  of  Madame  La  Tour  and  Marguerite 
de  Roberval,  Jean  Mance  and  Madeleine  Verscheres. 

The  time  since  those,  and  such  as  those,  ruled  and 
retarded  the  destinies  of  their  troubled  and  bitter 
northern  land  is  gone  by  long  and  prospering  years, 
and  the  race  has  changed  in  body,  and  spirit  too. 
But  there  remain  among  it  still,  in  some  numbers, 
men  who  are  worthy  of  their  forefathers,  and  women 
as  fit  for  courts  of  Europe,  or  cabins  in  the  wilder 
ness,  as  were  their  grandmothers  of  earlier  centuries. 

Jean  and  Anne  Carmel  were  of  these :  she,  none  the 
less  that  she  wore  the  dress  of  any  mere  habitant  girl 
of  the  remoter  farming  districts  ;  or  he,  that  his  big, 
square-shouldered  figure  was  hung  with  the  black 
cassock  of  his  order,  and  his  head  covered  by  a  wide 
silk-beaver  hat. 

It  was  because  of  the  large-brimmed  hat  that  the 
canoe  he  carried  —  a  home-made  affair  of  primitive 
sort  —  was  balanced  well  out  upon  his  arm.  When 
the  Angelus  had  stopped  ringing,  he  started  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  beach  and  walked  out  with  a  steady  step 
upon  a  long  board  that  reached  over  the  water,  rest- 


ANNE   CAKMEL  3 

ing  one  end  on  the  beach,  the  other  on  a  big  stone. 
He  stooped,  and  sliding  the  canoe  from  his  shoulder, 
set  it  afloat.  Then  he  turned,  holding  to  the  painter, 
and  snapped  his  fingers. 

A  dog  had  been  waiting  upon  the  beach,  —  an  eager- 
eyed,  sharp-eared,  small  animal,  whose  wiry  bristles 
and  general  coloring  suggested  a  not  very  remote 
Scotch-terrier  ancestry,  mixed,  however,  with  many 
bloods.  She  had  been  running  back  and  forth  on  the 
soft,  wet  sand,  where  the  little  five-dented  tracks 
oozed  full  of  water  and  shone  in  the  red  and  purple 
light,  tense  in  every  muscle,  shivering  all  over  with 
anxiety  and  anticipation,  whining  to  herself  when 
her  feelings  were  too  much  to  be  endured  in  longer 
silence.  She  was  out  upon  the  board  with  a  spring, 
but  the  instant  she  came  beside  the  canoe  she  subsided 
without  the  need  of  any  warning  word.  The  priest 
motioned  to  her,  and  she  jumped  in  lightly,  exactly 
in  the  middle,  so  that  it  hardly  rocked.  Then,  flatten 
ing  herself  under  the  thwarts,  she  went  forward  to  the 
bow  and  took  up  her  place,  sitting  on  her  haunches. 
Anne  had  come  out,  too,  upon  the  plank.  She  carried 
the  paddle,  and,  giving  it  to  her  brother,  bent  down 
and  tweaked  the  dog's  ear.  "She  has  the  discretion 
of  her  famous  namesake,  hein,  Pilote  ?  "  she  said.  "  But 
it  is  my  place  you  have  there,  remember."  The  gen 
erous  behavior  of  the  female  in  favor  showed  forth  in 
Pilote.  She  turned  her  head  a  very  little  and  looked 


4  ANNE   CARMEL 

at  Anne  with  entire  indifference,  and  did  not  stir  so 
much  as  her  bit  of  a  tail  the  breadth  of  one  of  its  stiff, 
coarse  hairs.  She  recalled,  perhaps,  occasions  when 
Anne  had  had  the  front  place  in  the  canoe  and  had 
remained  callous  to  whimpering  pleadings  and  shortly, 
sharply  barked  entreaties  to  be  taken  in,  even  if  only 
to  be  held  ignominiously  and  as  a  novice  in  some 
body's  arms. 

Jean  Carmel  observed  the  most  human  manifesta 
tion.  Pilote,  he  suggested,  was — as  was  frequently 
the  case  with  her  betters  —  under  very  mistaken  im 
pressions  regarding  the  favors  she  received.  And 
she  would  perhaps  have  exerted  herself  to  greater 
civility  had  she  but  realized  that  she  was  being  gratified 
by  reason  precisely  of  the  comparative  unimportance 
of  her  life.  "  We  are  going  above  the  rapids  to-night," 
he  added. 

Anne  was  the  descendant  of  women  who  had  not 
hampered  their  men  with  tender  fears,  to  whom  the 
memory  of  a  man  dead  in  fight  or  adventure  was 
dearer  than  the  possession  of  one  loving  ease  and 
safety  for  their  own  sakes.  She  knew  that  the  rapids 
were  dangerous.  But  she  knew  also  that  neither  that 
nor  anything  she  could  say  would  keep  her  brother 
from  going  above  them  and  shooting  them  on  the 
return.  And  so  she  said  nothing. 

He  stepped  into  the  canoe,  pushed  away  from 
the  plank,  brought  himself  around  with  a  twist  of 


ANNE   CAEMEL  5 

the  ash  paddle,  and  fell  to  work,  kneeling  on  one 
knee  and  putting  out  to  midstream.  The  river  was 
not  a  broad  one  for  the  greatest  part  of  its  length, 
but  at  St.  Hilaire  it  spread  out  to  almost  a  lake,  with 
several  small  green  islands  in  the  midst.  One  of  the 
village  men  had  driven  his  horse  and  wagon  down 
into  the  rippling  shallows,  and,  standing  on  the  wagon, 
was  filling  a  barrel  with  the  supply  of  water  which 
would  have  to  serve  his  family  for  the  next  few  days. 
St.  Hilaire  was  on  the  river's  edge,  but  water  was 
scarce  there,  and  cost  cents  or  toil  for  the  hauling. 
In  the  winter,  when  the  ice  was  heavy,  it  was  more 
precious  and  hoarded  still.  Two  of  the  dozen  chil 
dren  who  had  made  toilsome  the  villager's  score  or 
so  years  of  married  life  were  on  the  wagon  with  him. 
They  raised  their  hats  as  the  Cure  went  by  them, 
not  far  away,  and  then  they  waited,  looking  after 
him. 

Anne,  on  the  end  of  the  board  out  over  the  water, 
looked  after  him,  too,  until  the  canoe,  with  the  big 
black  figure  half  standing  in  it,  had  gone  well  up  the 
pink  and  purple  current,  on  the  glassy  surface  of 
which  the  streak  of  wake  glistened  brightly.  When 
he  had  disappeared  behind  a  point  of  aspens  a  half- 
mile  above,  she  turned  and  went  along  the  beach, 
walking  where  the  sand  was  dry  and  hard,  the  little 
yellow  flowers  thick  under  foot,  and  the  alder  bushes 
growing  down  to  the  water  line.  When  she  came 


6  ANNE  CARMEL 

to  one  of  the  roads  that  led  up  from  the  river,  she 
took  it  and  went  on  toward  the  main  street. 

A  fine,  bright  thread  of  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky 
where  it  was  still  a  little  yellow  above  the  branches 
of  the  apple  trees.  The  steady  song  of  the  crickets 
was  burring  dryly  through  all  the  evening  air.  The 
village  people  were  out  in  their  bits  of  garden  patches 
and  orchards,  or  sitting  with  their  dogs  and  cats  upon 
the  front  porches  of  their  cottages.  It  made  a  pretty 
picture  of  rest  and  contentment,  now  that  in  the 
deepening  twilight  one  could  not  see  that  the  children 
were  ragged  and  half  clothed,  and  the  women  lined 
and  made  ugly,  long  before  their  time,  by  hard  work, 
stinting,  and  much  motherhood.  They  gossiped  the 
small  matters  of  the  parish  as  they  rested  for  an 
hour,  sitting  in  the  mild  evening,  less  to  enjoy  that 
than  to  save  the  burning  of  candles.  All  of  them 
spoke  to  Anne  Carmel,  and  they  were  pleased  when 
she  answered.  She  could  hardly  have  done  less ;  but 
she  was  of  those  to  whom  a  mere  word  and  smile  will 
attract  more  devotion  than  will  great  acts  of  service 
and  self-sacrifice  rendered  by  another.  The  men  and 
the  women  looked  after  her  and  the  children  went  to 
the  fences  and  hung  over,  or  peered  between  the  pal 
ings,  following  with  round  eyes  the  tall  figure,  quick- 
gliding  and  indistinct  in  the  dusk.  She  had  for  them 
all  a  good  deal  of  the  attraction  of  the  unfamiliar, 
though  they  saw  her  every  day,  and  had  for  eight  years. 


ANNE  CARMEL  7 

But  she  was  not  one  of  them.  Neither,  for  that  matter, 
was  the  Cure ;  yet  he  was  a  friend  and  counsellor  —  a 
thing  altogether  new  in  their  experience  of  parish 
priests  at  St.  Hilaire.  And  he  was  brought  into  close 
relation  with  them  in  that  they  had  the  right  to  call  on 
him,  to  expect  much  of  him.  He  might  see  them  in 
their  homes,  at  their  best  or  worst.  But  for  his  mother 
and  sister  they  had  ways  and  speech  of  ceremony. 
It  was  only  a  few  of  the  children  of  well-to-do 
farmers  who  had  been  sent  away  for  education  who 
could  consider  themselves  on  a  footing  of  anything  like 
intimacy  with  the  family  at  the  presbytere.  But  the 
village  did  not  resent  it.  It  liked  Madame  Carmel 
sufficiently  well,  and  it  had  a  quite  intense  admiration 
for  Mademoiselle  Anne.  Not  that  they  thought  her 
beautiful.  Less  imposing  women,  more  pink  and  white, 
with  smaller  features  and  meeker  look,  they  understood 
better,  and  preferred  —  something  on  the  order  of  the 
plaintive  Blessed  Virgins  of  the  holy  pictures  and 
statues. 

There  was  perhaps,  in  all  the  neighborhood,  only 
Paul  Tetrault  whose  admiration  of  her  looks  was 
unreserved.  He  was  the  son  of  one  of  the  well-to-do 
cultivateurs  and  had  had  his  tastes  formed  by  metro 
politan  experience,  in  the  college  at  Montreal.  And 
he  was,  besides,  in  love  with  her. 

He  came  down  from  the  steps  of  the  post-office  now, 
and  joined  her  as  she  was  passing.  Then  they  stood 


8  ANNE  CARMEL 

in  front  of  the  presbytere  talking,  Anne  leaning  her 
long-limbed  body  against  the  white  picket  fence,  and 
he  on  the  narrow  sidewalk  of  unevenly  laid  flat  stones. 
He  did  not  go  in  with  her  to  the  house.  But  he  was 
happy  when  he  left  her,  and  went  on  out  the  road  to 
the  farm.  He  sang  to  himself  an  air  from  "  La  Belle 
Helene,"  learned  in  the  days  of  the  Montreal  college 
and  the  wearing  of  the  blue  sash.  He  affected  such 
tunes  as  he  conceived  to  be  modern,  and  held  the  habi 
tant  chanson  in  a  good  deal  of  contempt. 

He  had  let  go  his  last  chance  to  get  Anne's  promise 
to  marry  him — a  chance  which  had  been  good  just 
then.  But  he  was  no  more  aware  of  that  than  are  most 
of  us  at  the  moment  of  making  the  errors  of  omission 
which  leave,  forever  after  in  our  lives,  a  space  that  can 
not  be  filled.  And  Anne  went  along  the  path  between 
the  flower-beds  of  the  presbytere  garden.  She  was 
happy  too,  and  thinking  better  of  young  Tetrault  than 
she  was  ever  to  think  again.  She  had  watched  the 
canoe  going  up  the  river  out  of  sight,  and  there  had 
come  to  her  a  realization  that  the  man  in  it  was  only, 
after  all,  one  upon  whose  life  she  had  no  justifiable 
claim  —  her  brother,  to  be  sure,  but  in  no  wise  bound 
by  that  to  let  himself  be  influenced  or  governed  by  her 
wishes  and  actions,  having  the  unquestionable  right  to 
go  his  own  way  apart  from  hers,  independent  of  her,  if  he 
should  so  choose.  And  she  wanted  some  one  who  would 
not  have  that  right.  It  was  because  of  that  she  would 


ANNE  CABMBL  9 

have  promised,  there  by  the  presbytere  gate,  the  thing 
to  which  she  had  refused  to  bind  herself  more  than 
once  before,  to  marry  Paul  Tetrault. 

As  for  the  Cure,  he  kept  on  up  the  river,  making 
good  time,  with  his  strong,  steady  paddle  strokes.  He 
was  kneeling  now  on  both  knees.  The  afterglow 
faded,  the  new  moon  sank,  and  the  evening  star  came 
blazing  out  near  the  earth.  The  twilight  settled  into 
the  deep  blue  of  the  northern  autumn  night,  and  still 
he  headed  the  canoe  against  the  current,  working  hard, 
while  the  dog  sat,  without  moving  a  single  well-trained 
muscle,  forward  in  the  bow. 

When  he  had  made  his  portage  around  the  rapids  and 
it  was  near  midnight,  he  beached  his  canoe  among  somo 
weeds,  and,  tying  it  to  a  tree  branch,  went  upon  the 
shore,  the  dog  with  him.  He  groped  for  a  few  dry 
sticks  and  built  a  fire,  then  stretched  himself  out  in  the 
long  grass  beside  it,  propping  his  head  with  one 
hand  and  watching  the  crackling  flames  sputter  from 
one  stick  to  another,  and  lick  and  flicker,  and  then 
burn.  The  dog  lay  herself  against  him,  and  he  tweaked 
at  one  of  her  stiff  and  nondescript  ears  thoughtfully. 
Now  and  then  he  got  up  and  found  more  sticks  back 
among  the  thick  trees  and  put  them  on  the  fire.  And 
after  a  while  he  took  out  a  breviary  and  went  to  read 
ing  it  by  the  red,  moving  light.  It  was  for  his  pleasure 
that  he  did  this  thing  that  a  better  man  than  he  had 
done  for  the  saving  of  savage  souls,  crouching  in  the 


10  ANNE  CARMEL 

snow  outside  of  wigwams,  straining  his  smoke-seared 
eyes  in  the  light  of  the  moon.  The  mantle  of  Le  Jeune 
and  his  followers  had  become  a  garment  soft  and 
comfortable. 

The  dog,  in  pursuance  of  the  traditions  attached  to 
her  name,  sniffed  about  in  the  undergrowth  from  time 
to  time,  or  sat  with  her  ears  cocked  and  her  eyes  angry, 
looking  into  some  wavering  black  shadow,  bristling 
and  growling  in  an  undertone.  She  felt  her  responsi 
bilities  (and,  like  many  of  the  human  race,  tended  to 
make  herself  disagreeable  in  fulfilling  them),  though 
there  flowed  in  her  veins  none  of  the  blood,  whatever  it 
may  have  been,  of  that  very  important  factor  in  Ca 
nadian  colonization,  the  worthy  Pilote,  whose  fame  has 
been  accorded  bronze  and  a  monument. 

But  if  she  were  not  descended  from  the  settlers  of 
Montreal,  her  master,  at  least,  was.  Yet  of  his  own 
descent  he  knew  only  a  little  more  than  did  the  dog  of 
hers.  He  had  known  his  father,  he  knew  his  mother; 
the  fathers  and  mothers  of  those  were  accountable  for. 
But  beyond  that  it  did  not  go.  Those  who  are  full  of 
youth  and  strength  and  the  sense  of  present,  all- 
absorbing  life  concern  themselves  little  enough  with 
such  matters  as  a  rule  —  having  unconsciously,  per 
haps,  something  the  attitude  of  that  master  demo 
crat  who  proclaimed  himself,  disdainfully,  his  own 
ancestor. 

But  if  Jean  Carmel  could  have  gone  back  into  the 


ANNE  CARMEL  11 

short  and  troubled  history  of  his  country  and  could 
have  followed  through  the  confusion  of  birthrights 
that  resulted  from  lawlessness,  from  mixing  of  races, 
from  the  loose  manners  of  a  conquering  people,  part 
aristocrat,  part  adventurer  and  convict,  and  largely 
good-for-naught,  from  the  animal  unmorality  of  savage 
tribes,  from  vows  of  celibacy  in  the  church  and  out  of 
it,  —  if  he  could  have  traced  his  ancestry  back  through 
all  that,  he  might  have  found  less  of  duly  solemnized 
marriages  than  would  have  been  satisfactory  to  him ; 
but  his  position  would  not  have  been  worse  than  that 
of  many  another  of  his  people,  and  he  would  have 
come  upon  some  forbears  whose  places  in  a  romantic 
history  had  been  fairly  won.  He  was  of  stock  which 
had  produced  the  military  chief  of  that  vision-led  band 
which  landed  under  the  sunset  shadow  of  the  Mont 
Real  on  a  day  in  May,  and  claimed  the  island  in  the 
name  of  the  Virgin  Mother,  that  undaunted  young 
nobleman  from  out  the  most  civilized  kingdom  of 
Europe,  who  would  obey  his  orders  though  every  tree 
on  the  island  were  an  Iroquois.  Men  like  that,  as  well 
as  men  of  the  third  estate,  had  made  his  own  existence 
possible.  So  too  had  women  such  as  the  fourteen-year- 
old  child  who  dared  to  save  another  woman  at  the  risk 
of  her  own  life,  and  who  held  her  feeble  Castle  Dan 
gerous  on  the  St.  Lawrence  for  seven  days  against  the 
swarming  red  enemy.  There  had,  perhaps,  been  among 
his  ancestors,  as  well,  one  or  two  of  those  women  whose 


12  ANNE  CARMEL 

perplexed,  well-intentioned  fathers  had  offered  them  to 
the  white  men  without  the  superfluous  and  incompre 
hensible  form  of  the  Christian  marriage  service.  The 
companions  and  successors  of  the  iron-breasted  gov 
ernor,  Lutetian,  noble  and  Indian  brave,  English  soldier 
and  Loyalist,  French  coureur  de  bois,  prosperous  and 
unscrupulous  trader,  Irish  immigrant  and  quiet  cultiva- 
teur  of  the  St.  Lawrence  farms  —  all  of  them  had  had 
their  share  in  the  production  of  Jean  Carmel,  priest 
at  St.  Hilaire. 

They  were  his  bodily  progenitors.  And  his  spiritual 
ones  were  not  unlike  :  the  Recollet  fathers,  who,  fore 
most  with  the  foremost  coureur  de  bois,  had  carried  the 
Cross  to  the  mountain  fastnesses  of  the  gigantic  West, 
who  had  said  the  first  mass  in  a  new  and  appalling 
land,  who,  driven  away  by  the  plotting,  intriguing,  and 
favoritism  of  a  far-off  court,  gave  place  to  those  Jesuits 
who  founded  not  only  the  monastery,  but  the  Huron 
Mission  as  well,  and  who  suffered  death  by  many  times 
more  cruel  than  ever  the  early  Christian  martyrs  were 
called  upon  to  meet. 

Among  those  first  priests  of  Canada  there  were  not 
only  ones  who  taught  and  baptized  the  faithless  Indian, 
and  followed  the  ways  of  peace  and  truth  —  there 
were  others  who  put  themselves  at  the  head  of  soldiers 
and  fought  in  the  van,  who  stopped  at  no  deceit 
or  subterfuge  to  claim  a  convert  soul,  who  preached 
from  their  pulpits  the  massacre  of  the  Protestant 


ANNE  CABMBL  13 

settlers,  and  paid  with  their  own  hands  the  bounty 
money  on  many  an  English  scalp.  Yet,  if  one  be 
lieves  with  the  historian  that  the  militant  priest 
is  at  least  of  more  worth  in  a  world  of  action  than 
that  one  who  withdraws  himself  into  hermitage  and 
contemplation,  they  were  a  magnificent  band  of  heroes 
and  martyrs,  with  all  their  faults.  But  the  laws  are 
easy  now  and  peace  is  assured  ;  the  land  which  starved 
the  Five  Nations  gives  plenty  to  the  peoples  who 
braved  the  Five  Nations1  tortures ;  the  children  of 
the  daring  settlers  and  men  of  the  woods  are  habitant 
peasants  and  villagers,  kept  not  too  intelligent,  or 
drugged  with  superstition.  Or  in  the  cities  they  are 
become  as  other  makers  of  a  country's  material  pros 
perity —  law-abiding,  both  civilly  and  religiously.  So 
a  mission  is  no  longer  to  the  dangerous  Hurons,  but 
for  the  obedient  parishioner.  And  the  enemies  of  the 
faith  —  being  in  control  of  the  land  itself  —  must  be 
treated  by  other  methods  than  the  Acadian's  one  of 
burning  their  homes  and  taking  their  scalps.  The 
chances  for  a  devotion  which  will  satisfy  the  strenuous 
soul  are  not  over  plentiful.  To  hear  confessions  and 
say  masses,  to  baptize  children  and  a  very  rare  con 
vert,  to  marry  the  youth  and  bury  the  dead,  is  the 
work  that  lies  ready  to  the  hands  of  the  successors 
of  Brebceuf  and  Jogues,  of  Piquet  and  the  Abbe  Le 
Loutre.  It  can  be  a  good  work  still,  but  it  is  often 
merely  one,  like  another,  for  the  earning  of  a  liveli- 


14  ANNE  CARMEL 

hood  not  too  hardly,  and  at  it  a  man  may  grow  flaccid 
and  careless  very  easily. 

It  had  seemed  so  certainly  to  Jean  Carmel.  And 
when  he  had  entered  the  priesthood  it  had  been  with 
the  fixed  intention  of  becoming  flaccid  and  careless 
neither  morally  nor  physically  nor  mentally.  He  had 
said  so  to  the  bishop  who  had  ordained  him.  "  You 
remember  the  little  boy  who  wailed  that  all  the  battles 
were  fought,  and  all  the  discoveries  made,  and  all  the 
books  written,  and  all  the  heroic  deeds  done,  and 
nothing  left  for  a  man  to  accomplish?  Well,  I  am 
not  of  the  opinion  of  that  boy.  There  is  still  all  to 
be  done  in  the  world  that  man  can  do  —  and  more. 
And  I  will  try  to  perform  my  part  of  it."  "  Cer 
tainly,"  had  said  the  bishop,  "certainly,  my  son." 
He  had  met  with  the  enthusiasm  of  novices  before. 
It  was  Jean  Carmel's  first  blow  against  that  limp 
spirit  of  the  world,  long  encountering  with  the  yield 
ing  of  which  must  almost  of  necessity  take  the  sinew 
from  one's  arms,  more  or  less.  But  he  had  not  been 
discouraged  then,  and  he  was  not  as  yet. 

He  had  been  eight  years  in  the  parish  of  St.  Hilaire 
—  his  first,  —  and  though  some  of  his  beliefs  had  gone, 
he  was  not  of  those  feeble  ones  who  let  their  ideals 
be  taken  too.  If  he  had  fallen  short  of  any  of  his 
intentions,  if  he  had  become  flaccid  and  careless  in 
any  way,  it  was  mentally.  But  that  was,  by  very 
force  of  circumstances  and  of  his  life,  little  short  of 


ANNE  CARMEL  15 

inevitable.  Morally  his  strength  was  still  intact  — 
and  physically. 

There  had  been  power  in  the  arras  that  had  sent 
the  canoe  heading  straight  up  the  current  of  the 
stream,  and  there  was  power  in  the  bent  neck  and 
shoulders  as  he  leaned  forward,  closer  to  the  fire, 
reading.  There  was  the  ability  to  hold  or  to  crush 
in  the  hand  that  had  the  breviary.  And  his  was  the 
love  of  uninhabited  spots  of  that  prophet  who  predicted 
woe  to  them  that  join  house  to  house,  and  field  to 
field,  "  till  there  be  no  place  that  they  may  be  placed 
alone  in  the  midst  of  the  earth."  The  great  silence 
and  blackness  and  loneliness  and  space  were  good. 
They  are  the  primal  condition  of  the  soul,  and  the 
soul  must  touch  them  now  and  again  for  the  gather 
ing  of  strength,  as  the  giant  of  the  myth  had  need 
to  touch  his  mother  Earth. 

When  he  judged  by  the  stars  that  it  was  not  many 
hours  from  dawn,  the  Cure  covered  the  cinders  of 
the  wood  with  wet  weeds  from  the  beach,  —  for  the  fire 
of  Miramichi  has  dwelt  in  the  memory  of  the  Cana 
dian  woodsman.  Then  he  called  to  the  dog,  who  was 
snarling  back  among  the  trees  at  something  real  or 
imagined.  She  came,  still  showing  her  teeth  and 
looking  behind  her.  They  got  into  the  canoe  again 
and  pushed  outward  from  the  bank. 

The  darkness  was  blacker  than  when  he  had  landed 
at  midnight,  and  more  thick.  Except  the  dense  loom- 


16  ANNE  CAKMEL 

ing  of  the  woods  on  the  near  shore,  and  the  steel 
glitter  of  the  light  of  some  star  on  a  ripple,  he 
could  see  nothing  whatever.  But  he  knew  the  river 
well,  and,  leaning  back  at  rest,  keeping  close  enough 
to  the  bank  to  avoid  the  centre  of  the  current,  he 
had  only  to  steer.  It  was  not  until  the  first  whiten 
ing  of  the  sky  that  he  came  to  the  rapids,  and  he 
shot  them  in  safety.  The  bow  of  the  canoe  swung 
suddenly  from  side  to  side,  cut  down  and  sprang  out 
of  the  water,  but  Pilote,  sitting  on  her  haunches, 
her  fore  paws  braced,  did  not  move.  If  she  had  lost 
her  balance,  the  Cure's  skill  with  the  paddle  might 
have  availed  very  little,  and  he  would,  in  all  proba 
bility,  have'  had  to  make  his  fight  with  the  waters 
themselves,  breast  to  breast.  That  he  would  have 
won  in  the  fight  was  also  probable  ;  the  river  was 
not  swollen  in  the  autumn,  and  he  swam  well.  But 
when  he  was  past  the  danger-point  he  looked  up  to 
the  bluff  on  the  shore  above  him.  In  the  fading 
night,  paling  wanly  near  the  horizon,  he  could  see  a 
high,  thin  black  cross  rising  against  the  sky  and  the 
fine-sown  stars.  He  knew  that  there  were  five  other 
crosses  at  its  base.  The  breaking  of  a  log  jam  had 
sent  six  men  to  their  deaths  here,  a  few  springs  before. 
As  he  came  in  sight  of  the  spire  of  the  church 
of  St.  Hilaire  and  heard  the  Angelus  ring  again, 
it  was  gray  dawn.  The  current  was  steady  and 
smooth  here.  He  stood  up  in  the  canoe  and  looked 


ANNE  CARMEL  17 

down  the  river.  On  the  right  bank  nearest  to  him, 
and  across  from  St.  Hilaire  there  was  the  thin  blue 
haze  of  smoke  against  the  dark  of  the  trees,  and  pres 
ently  he  saw  the  red  gleam  of  a  fire.  Then  a  man 
walked  down  to  the  beach  and  watched  the  canoe 
coming  toward  him  in  the  pale  glimmer  of  daybreak, 
over  the  smooth  water,  a  massive  black-robed  figure 
standing  erect  in  it.  The  Cure  knelt  on  one  knee  and 
put  the  canoe  over  to  the  right  bank.  And  the  man 
on  the  shore  waited.  "A  priest  —  by  the  shades  of 
the  Jesuit  fathers !  "  he  said  aloud,  when  he  could  see 
that  the  black  garb  was  a  cassock.  But  there  was, 
after  all,  nothing  so  strange  in  that.  He  had  hunted 
and  fished  in  Canada  too  much  not  to  have  met  with 
the  sportsman  type  of  parish  shepherd.  And  recalling 
at  least  one,  in  the  northern  salmon  regions,  whose  little 
irregularities  in  fish  catching  and  trading  had  not 
prevented  him  from  being  uncommonly  good  company 
in  a  camp,  he  hallooed  a  greeting.  The  Cure's  voice 
came  back  over  the  river,  and  the  canoe  headed  more 
sharply  inshore.  A  guide  had  been  back  by  the  tent. 
He  came  down  now  to  the  sand.  He  was  a  half-breed 
from  Oka,  of  the  weedy,  thin-bearded  sort  whose  white 
blood  seems  to  be  a  poison  slowly  killing  them. 

When  the  priest  was  within  speaking  distance,  the 
Englishman  on  the  beach  called  again.  There  was 
fish  and  bacon  and  coffee,  if  the  Cure  would  land.  He 
spoke  in  French,  badly  and  with  effort.  The  Cure  ran 


18  ANNE  CARMEL 

his  canoe  on  some  water  grass  and  stepped  out.  He 
answered  the  heavy  British  French  in  English  quite  as 
perfect  as  the  Englishman's  own  —  if  less  practised. 
The  offer  of  breakfast  was  tempting  —  but  he  had 
mass  to  celebrate  at  seven. 

"  It  is  five,"  said  the  Englishman.  "  You  can  finish 
and  be  across  in  good  time." 

The  Cure  shook  his  head.  He  had  put  on  the 
wide-brimmed  beaver  now  again,  and  looked  more  the 
priest.  "  I  breakfast  afterwards,"  he  said.  It  was  a 
detail  the  Englishman  had  forgotten.  "But  I  will 
swim  with  you,"  said  the  Cure. 

And  they  swam  across  the  river  and  back  again, 
while  the  sun  came  up  and  touched  the  church  spire  to 
a  point  of  flame  where  it  showed  above  the  trees,  and 
glistened  on  the  bubbles  and  froth  and  ripples,  spread 
ing  out  behind  the  two  bodies  cutting  through  the 
water.  Pilote,  doing  her  best  to  keep  up  with  them, 
her  rough  yellow  head  nose  up,  followed  far  in  the 
wake  of  her  master's  long  strokes.  And  after  they 
had  dressed  again,  and  the  Englishman  sat  by  the  fire 
drinking  his  black  coffee  and  eating  his  camp  biscuit 
and  fish,  he  accounted  for  his  presence  shortly  and 
without  detail.  He  was  hunting  —  and  fishing  by  the 
way ;  he  was  from  England,  and  his  name  was 
Harnett. 

The  priest  returned  it  in  kind.  He  was  the  Cure 
of  St.  Hilaire,  —  he  motioned  across  the  river  —  and,  if 


ANNE  CARMEL  19 

Harriett  were  to  be  long  in  the  neighborhood,  he  would 
be  welcome  at  the  presbytere.  There  was  a  flat- 
bottomed,  leaky  skiff  drawn  up  on  the  beach  near 
where  the  canoe  lay  —  so  the  river  was  evidently  not 
an  impassable  obstacle. 

Harnett  kept  an  unmoved  countenance  at  the 
quaint  precision  of  the  priest's  English.  He  would 
be  glad,  he  told  him,  falling  into  the  Latin  formality 
of  it,  to  call  at  the  presbytere. 

As  he  finished  his  breakfast  he  watched  the  canoe, 
with  the  half-kneeling  black  figure  astern  and  the 
rigid  dog  at  the  prow,  cutting  smoothly  over  to 
the  opposite  shore  across  the  sheet  of  water  glinting 
in  all  the  colors  of  mother-of-pearl. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  is  to  be  doubted  if  there  has  ever  been  so 
many  as  one  of  the  blessings  of  progress  which  has 
been  recognized  and  hailed  as  such,  at  first  sight, 
by  those  whose  habits  of  life  it  in  anyway  altered, 
whose  customs  it  threw  out  of  equilibrium.  And  the 
amount  of  unhappiness,  not  to  say  sometimes  tragedy, 
which  compulsory  education  -can  bring  about  in  a 
community,  is  something  which  would  very  possibly 
surprise  those  makers  of  laws  to  whom  education 
has  been  either  a  foregone  conclusion  or  else  a  thing 
worth  striving  for  at  any  pains. 

In  a  part  of  the  world  where  it  may  yet  be  cited 
in  an  obituary,  as  among  the  virtues  of  the  deceased, 
that  she  was  the  typical  mother  of  French  Canada, 
having  many  children,  and  knowing  neither  how  to 
read  nor  write,  the  placing  of  the  schools  "under 
control,"  and  the  compelling  of  at  least  a  rudimen 
tary  sort  of  knowledge,  is  necessarily  very  disturbing 
to  the  bucolic  peace  of  mind. 

It  had  disturbed,  to  a  truly  pitiable  extent,  the 
peace  of  mind  of  Marie  Louise  Gerard.  And  it  fol- 

20 


ANNE  CARMEL  21 

lowed,  therefore,  that  the  Cure  was  the  person  of 
whom  to  seek  comfort.  St.  Anne,  who  superin 
tended  the  education  of  the  Virgin  and  might  con 
sequently  be  expected  to  be  interested  in  matters 
having  to  do  with  instruction,  had  entirely  failed, 
though  Madame  Gerard  had  commended  herself  to 
her  with  perfect  trust.  So  for  several  days  Madame 
Gerard  had  been  waiting  her  chance  to  see  Monsieur 
Carmel.  And  now  it  had  come.  The  Cure  was 
stopping  in  front  of  the  house  to  speak  to  the  next 
to  the  youngest  child.  Madame  went  to  the  door. 
She  had  been  spinning  and  still  held  the  distaff  under 
her  left  arm.  "  Bon  jour,  m'sieu',"  she  said  timidly. 
Was  m'sieu'  too  hurried  to  come  in  for  a  moment? 
Monsieur  Carmel  was  never  too  hurried  to  be  at 
the  service  of  his  parishioners.  The  cure's  before  him 
had  never  called  at  the  houses  unless  there  were 
money  to  be  demanded,  but  Monsieur  Carmel  was 
otherwise.  He  went  through  the  gate  now  and  into 
the  cottage.  It  was  a  tiny  cottage,  built  of  stone 
and  mortar  —  one  room,  a  pantry  closet,  and  stairs 
running  up  to  the  loft.  The  family,  eight  in  all, 
slept  in  the  loft,  but  in  the  room  downstairs  it,  for 
the  rest,  lived,  cooked,  ate,  and  sat  about.  And 
since  the  year  after  Marie  Louise's  wedding  there 
had  always  been  a  red-and-yellow  wooden  crib  in 
the  corner  near  the  two-story  box  stove.  The  door 
was  so  low  that  the  Cure  had  to  bend  his  head  as 


22  ANNE  CARMEL 

he  came  under  it,  and  the  room  itself  was  so  small 
that  he  took  up  a  very  fair  part  of  it.  The  grand 
mother,  in  her  close  white  bonnet,  sat  knitting  the 
heavy  stockings  that  winter  would  soon  make  a  ne 
cessity,  and  all  the  children  crowded  in.  Marie 
Louise  had  been  married  at  sixteen.  She  was  now 
twenty-five,  and  there  were  five  children  living  and 
two  dead.  The  youngest,  asleep  in  the  red-and- 
yellow  crib,  was  a  month  old.  To  one  taking  the 
poet's  view  of  pastoral  life  it  might  have  been  a 
pretty  subject,  the  neat  little  old  grandmother  with 
her  cap  and  knitting,  the  sweet  young  mother  with 
her  distaff,  the  four  little  girls  as  hearty  and  bewitch- 
ingly  attractive  as  are  most  small  habitant  maidens, 
and  the  month-old  baby  in  its  red-and-yellow  crib. 
But  the  Cure  had  had  too  many  dealings  with  the 
realities  of  pastoral  life  to  indulge  in  much  senti 
mentalizing  poetry.  He  was  under  no  illusions  what 
soever.  He  knew  what  the  grandmother's  life  had 
been,  the  life  of  a  peasant  woman  who  had  toiled  in 
the  field  like  a  beast  of  burden,  in  her  time,  ceasing 
only  when  she  brought  into  the  world  another  of 
the  children  for  whom  she  had  no  leisure  to  care, 
going  back  the  next  day  to  her  work.  And  he  knew 
that  these  pretty  children  had  not  always  all  they 
could  eat,  and  that,  though  their  outer  garments 
were  whole  enough,  such  scanty  underclothing  as 
they  had  was  patched  together  by  their  mother's 


ANNE  CARMEL  23 

careful  fingers,  from  rags  of  many  kinds  and  various 
colors. 

As  for  Madame  Gerard  —  he  could  remember  her 
just  after  her  marriage,  and  she  had  been  one  of  the 
prettiest  of  soft-eyed,  slender  young  women,  altogether 
adoring  the  young  day  workman,  her  husband,  who  was 
as  much  the  inferior  of  his  wife  in  appearance  as  the 
average  habitant  man.  She  adored  the  husband  yet, 
though  he  was  still  only  a  journalier  and  was  likely  to 
remain  so,  the  size  of  his  ever-growing  family  not  jus 
tifying  him  in  making  any  bold  and  hazardous  plays 
for  fortune.  But  the  big  liquid  eyes  had  become 
weary  and  pathetic,  and  her  skin  was  dead  white  and 
drawn  over  her  forehead  until  the  blue  veining  showed. 
The  mass  of  her  brown  hair  seemed  too  heavy  a  weight, 
and  her  shoulders  drooped  with  work  and  the  burden 
of  childish  bodies.  She  was  very  pretty  still,  in  her 
appealing  way  —  but  the  Cure  could  see  the  time,  a 
few  years  off,  when  the  sunken  blue  eyes  would  be  the 
one  beauty  left  her.  It  is  only  in  centres  of  civi 
lization  that  one  may  conceive  the  woman  of  thirty  as 
a  heroine  of  romance.  And  it  is  only,  inversely,  where 
the  possibility  of  romance  exists,  that  a  woman  keeps 
herself  fit  for  it.  But  all  thought  of  other  than  toil  and 
the  bearing  of  children,  and  the  ultimate  terrors  of 
death  with  which  their  religion  surrounded  them,  had 
gone  from  the  lives  of  these  mothers  of  large  fami 
lies  who  reckoned  their  offspring  by  the  living 


24  ANNE   CARMEL 

and  the  inevitable  dead.  The  Cure  was  very  sorry 
for  Madame  Gerard.  He  pushed  back  the  hair 
from  his  forehead  with  the  flat  of  his  big  hand.  He 
did  it  when  he  was  too  near  to  showing  emotion,  or 
when  he  was  ill  at  ease,  sometimes  when  he  was  an 
noyed  and  thought  it  better  not  to  say  so.  Then  he 
bent  over  and  lifted  the  three-year-old  child  upon  his 
knee.  She  was  yellow-haired  and  brown-eyed,  so  imp 
ishly  pretty  that  the  desire  to  catch  and  hold  her  was 
irresistible.  But  she  was  not  of  a  mind  to  be  held,  and 
she  writhed  her  dainty  little  body  out  of  the  Cure's 
arms  with  much  skill  and  prompt  success.  Madame 
Gerard  bade  them  go  out-of-doors,  all  of  them.  When 
there  was  only  the  grandmother  left,  and  the  baby,  she 
came  to  the  subject  of  her  trouble  at  once.  Its  basis 
was  this  new  thing  of  compulsory  education.  The 
oldest  girl,  being  now  eight  years  old,  could  no  longer 
be  kept  from  school,  however  much  she  was  needed 
about  the  house. 

"And  she  can  knit,  m'sieu',  and  spin  —  tena  ! " 
She  went  over  to  a  cupboard  back  of  the  big  stove 
and  brought  out  a  gray  woollen  sock,  almost  finished, 
but  with  the  needles  still  in  the  toe.  "  She  did  that. 
Judge  if  she  is  becoming  useful  to  me.  And  now, 
just  when  she  can  help  me,  can  do  the  washing  and 
dress  the  children  and  take  care  of  the  baby,  —  almost 
anything  that  a  woman  can  do,  —  then  she  must  be 
sent  to  school." 


ANNE  CAKMEL  25 

M'sieu'  le  Cure  could  see,  she  went  on,  that  she  had 
need  of  help  herself,  with  so  many  children — and  she  so 
often  ill.  "  I  have  no  strength  any  more,  no  health." 
She  took  from  him  the  sock  he  had  examined  dutifully 
and  approvingly,  with  that  combined  air  of  wisdom  and 
embarrassment  a  man  always  brings  to  such  things. 
She  put  it  back,  and  he  saw  how  tidy  the  cupboard  was. 

Madame  Gerard  returned  to  her  chair.  All  her 
movements  were  patiently  listless  ones.  "  Yes,  but  it 
is  not  for  that  I  care  so  much,  m'sieu'.  It  is  that 
when  she  can  read  she  will  think  poorly  of  her  mother. 
I  cannot  read,  you  know,  m'sieu.' "  The  big,  soft  blue 
eyes  were  swimming  with  tears.  The  delicate  pale  lips 
quivered.  It  was  not  amusing  at  all. 

He  pushed  the  hair  from  his  forehead  again.  He 
did  not  think  of  anything  to  say  which  would  be 
likely  to  do  much  good.  But  he  made  the  attempt. 
It  would  not  be  possible  for  any  one  to  think  poorly 
of  her,  he  said,  and  surely  least  of  all,  the  children 
for  whom  she  had  done  so  much.  But  she  was  able  to 
cite  too  many  instances  to  the  contrary  in  support  of 
her  view.  The  village  had  plenty  of  children  who 
held  their  illiterate  parents  in  contempt.  "  No,  m'sieu', 
they  almost  always  think  less  of  us."  A  tear  rolled 
down  over  the  thin,  faintly  pink  cheeks.  "It  is 
natural  too.  It  is  true.  Once  they  have  learned  to 
read  —  we  are  not  so  good  as  they."  He  reminded 
her  that  wisdom  was  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  the  knowl- 


26  ANNE  CABMEL 

edge  of  God  ;  the  best  understanding  that  of  right 
eousness  and  judgment  and  equity  ;  that,  with  the 
good  God,  reading  and  writing  were  not  counted  to 
the  credit  of  a  human  soul.  But  Marie  Louise  had 
a  vague,  unformulated  philosophy  of  her  own  which 
made  her  feel  that  the  soul  of  a  highly  intelligent 
being  was  surely  of  more  value  in  the  spiritual  econ 
omy  than  that  of  an  unlettered  peasant  like  herself. 
She  could  not  express  it  to  the  Cure,  and  had  she 
been  able  to  put  it  in  words  even  for  her  own  under 
standing,  she  might  have  realized  it  to  be  of  very 
heretical  tinge.  All  that  she  knew  definitely  was 
that  her  daughters,  however  dutiful,  would  look  down 
on  her  once  they  should  learn  to  read  and  write,  and 
that  they  would  be  justified  in  doing  so.  There  was 
only  one  way  to  avoid  it.  She  must  learn  to  read 
herself.  She  told  the  Cure  so,  half  despairingly,  but 
it  was  natural  enough  that  learning  to  read  should 
not,  at  first  blush,  seem  any  such  formidable  under 
taking  to  Jean  Carmel.  Like  most,  he  had  gone 
through  the  process  so  young  himself  that  the  troubles 
of  it  were  hardly  more  remembered  than  those  of  the 
coming  of  the  first  teeth.  It  struck  him  as  a  very 
good  idea.  And  he  said  so  heartily.  Certainly,  if 
she  felt  as  she  did  about  it,  let  her  learn  to  read, 
he  advised,  relieved  that  there  was  so  simple  an  end 
ing  possible  to  the  humble  little  tragedy. 

But   Madame  Gerard  sat  considering  him  patheti- 


ANNE  CARMEL  27 

cally  with  the  soft  and  tearful  eyes.  "Yet,  m'sieu', 
I  cannot  go  to  school,"  she  said.  "And  I  work 
from  five  in  the  morning  until  after  dark,  and  some 
times  much  later.  It  is  easy  to  tell  me  to  learn, 
but  I  thought  perhaps  you  could  tell  me  how  to  do 
it."  There  was  never  the  least  hesitation  in  the  par 
ish  about  bringing  to  the  young  priest  all  manner  of 
problems,  spiritual  and  temporal,  to  solve,  about  re 
questing  him  to  make  the  impossible  feasible.  He 
was  always  kind  with  it ;  and  he  very  often  found 
the  solution  or  the  means. 

He  found  them  now  after  he  had  sat  for  a  moment 
thinking,  sitting,  bent  forward  with  one  arm  thrown 
over  his  knees  and  his  brows  drawn  together.  He 
looked  up  with  a  quick  smile.  He  was  a  man  who  did 
not  smile  often.  "I  have  it,  madame.  If  you  could 
come  up  to  me  for  one  hour  each  evening  —  after  your 
work  is  done."  The  Cure  liked  his  evenings  to  him 
self,  to  read  or  to  walk,  to  go  out  in  his  canoe,  to  sit 
with  his  mother  and  Anne,  or  to  play  cards  with  visit 
ing  neighbors  occasionally.  But  after  all,  it  would 
be  worth  the  giving  up  of  one  hour  to  see  Madame 
Gerard's  face  a  little  less  sadly  anxious  and  deprecat 
ing.  If  he  could  help  to  lift  one  of  the  very  many 
burdens  from  her  young  mind,  it  was  obviously  noth 
ing  less  than  his  duty. 

But  it  was  one  matter  to  offer  the  thing,  and 
altogether  another  to  have  to  receive  her  thanks. 


28  ANNE  CARMBL 

He  stood  up  abruptly  as  her  eyes  filled  again  —  with 
the  tears  of  gratitude  this  time.  His  palm  pushed 
back  the  hair  from  his  forehead.  "  Very  well,  then, 
madame  ;  it  is  arranged,"  he  put  in  hastily.  And  he 
would  not  be  a  severe  taskmaster,  he  assured  her. 
He  was  out  on  the  porch  by  then,  and  could  retreat 
if  he  wished,  so  he  stopped  and  called  the  next  to 
the  youngest  child  from  where  she  was  playing  among 
the  tomato  plants  in  a  corner  of  the  bit  of  yard. 
The  child  came,  dubiously  and  very  slowly,  carrying 
a  large  ripe  tomato.  From  her  two-year-old  view 
the  Cure  looked  awesomely  large  and  black.  Could 
she  give  him  her  name  ?  he  asked  her,  bending 
down. 

"  Cecile,"  she  told  him  in  a  whisper,  hanging  her 
flaxen  head.  "That  is  a  good  name,"  the  Cure  en 
couraged,  "the  name  of  a  saint  who  made  beautiful 
music,  which  the  angels  listened  to." 

"  Oui,  m'sieu,"  said  Cecile.  Whatever  the  Cure  said 
to  her,  she  always  answered,  "oui,  m'sieu'."  She  had 
been  taught  that  it  was  la  politesse. 

"Be  Monseigneur  for  M'sieu'  Carmel,"  suggested 
her  mother.  The  Bishop  had  been  to  St.  Hilaire  in 
the  spring,  on  his  three-yearly  confirmation  visit,  when 
the  cottages  along  the  road  had  been  decorated  and  he 
and  his  suite  had  made  their  triumphant  entry.  Cecile 
had  profited  by  what  she  had  seen.  Her  round  little 
pink  and  white  countenance  became  preternaturally 


ANNE  CARMEL  29 

solemn,  she  raised  her  hand  with  the  mites  of  fingers 
ready  for  the  episcopal  blessing,  and  with  creased  red 
palm  turned  outward  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

That  it  might  not  perhaps  be  altogether  seemly  did 
not  occur  to  the  Cure.  The  likeness  to  the  Bishop 
was  irresistible,  and  the  Bishop  was  a  pompous  little 
man.  Monsieur  Carmel  chuckled  over  it  as  he  went 
on  his  way,  swinging  up  the  street. 


CHAPTER  III 

ANNE  had  been  walking  down  by  the  river  front  in 
the  path  through  the  trees.  It  was  a  gray  evening, 
warm  and  breathless,  there  was  a  high  mist  over  the 
sky,  and  the  water  was  as  colorless  as  dull  silver.  A 
couple  of  punts  were  out  in  the  middle  of  the  stream. 
It  was  Thursday,  and  the  fish  for  Friday  were  to  be 
caught —  the  one  time  in  the  week  when  the  villagers 
used  the  supply  of  that  food  which  was  there  for  the 
mere  taking.  Anne  sat  on  a  big  rock  and  watched 
them  idly.  Once  she  saw  a  bit  of  red  in  the  grass 
under  the  bushes.  The  maples  had  only  just  begun 
to  turn  in  a  spray  here  and  there,  and  none  of  the 
leaves  were  falling  yet.  She  went  over  to  see  what 
it  was.  And  she  found  it  to  be  a  little  cluster  of 
belated  bunchberries.  She  broke  them  off  and  pinned 
them  on  her  breast.  Then  she  went  back  to  the  stone. 

Over  on  the  other  shore  she  could  see  a  camp-fire 
smouldering  among  the  trees,  and  two  figures  moving 
around  it.  Before  long  one  of  the  figures  came  down 
to  the  water's  edge,  shoved  off  the  boat  that  was 
beached  there,  and  stepped  into  it.  He  began  to  row 

30 


Harnett  meets  Anne  for  the  first  time. 


ANNE  CARMEL  31 

across.  In  the  still  evening  she  could  hear  the  even 
click,  click  of  the  oars  as  they  turned  on  the  iron  pivots, 
—  that  and  the  humming  of  the  cicadas  in  the  grass 
and  trees  and  the  occasional  sleepy  rustle  of  a  bird 
up  in  the  leaves.  But  those  were  undertones,  and 
the  click  of  the  oars  was  quick  and  insistent.  It  came 
so  steadily,  so  regularly,  so  distinctly,  followed  by 
the  faint  splash  of  water.  It  grew  nearer  and  louder  ; 
it  filled  the  low,  gray  sky.  Then  the  boat  grated 
suddenly  on  the  little  stones.  She  could  not  see  it 
now.  A  clump  of  alders  was  in  the  way.  But  in  a 
moment  more  Harnett  came  toward  the  bushes.  Anne 
stood  up,  rising  to  her  full  height. 

Harnett  was  not  more  easily  thrown  out  than  an 
other  of  his  race  and  considerable  experience,  but  the 
apparition  of  the  tall  gray  woman  among  the  tall 
trunks  of  the  silver  birches,  in  the  misty  gray  of  the 
evening,  made  him  stop  short,  looking  her  straight 
in  the  face.  Then  he  lowered  his  eyes.  There  was 
a  spot  of  crimson  over  her  heart.  He  raised  his  hunt 
ing  cap  slightly  and  kept  on. 

He  wondered,  as  he  went  toward  the  village,  if  the 
habitant  whose  wife  she  doubtless  was  set  a  just 
value  by  his  fine  possession.  As  undoubtedly  not. 
And  she  was  probably  the  mother  of  a  half-dozen  babies 
or  so,  whose  general  effect  had  been  enhanced  by  the 
gray  dress  and  the  gray  twilight,  and  by  the  uncom 
monly  fitting  surroundings  —  even  to  the  silver  lines 


32  ANNE  CARMEL 

of  the  birches.  In  the  noonday  it  was  altogether 
conceivable  that  closer  inspection  would  prove  disen 
chanting.  Even  then,  nevertheless,  with  one  of  the 
half-naked  little  fellows  that  teemed  about  these  vil 
lage  cottages,  she  would  make  a  very  fair  conception 
of  sylvan  motherhood.  It  was  not,  however,  with 
habitant  mothers  he  concerned  himself.  He  had  come 
over  to  see  something  more  of  his  acquaintance,  the 
Cure.  A  young,  heroic-built  priest,  who  went  canoe 
ing  all  night  up  and  down  black  and  silent  waterways, 
who  could  then  swim  a  strong  flowing  current  and 
back  again,  and  —  by  far  more  a  test  of  strength  — 
could  sit  by  after  that  and  watch  another  man  eat 
breakfast,  —  at  least  he  promised  to  be  worth  knowing. 
"And  the  coffee  must  have  smelt  unpleasantly  good, 
too,"  he  said  to  himself.  The  self-denial  upon  a  mere 
religious  scruple  had  impressed  him.  And  there  had 
seemed  no  sort  of  cant  about  it,  either.  As  a  rule  he 
had  an  exceedingly  poor  opinion  of  the  French-Cana 
dian  priest.  The  sacerdotal  poacher  of  the  north 
eastern  salmon  regions,  who  had  turned  himself  a 
comfortable  fortune  and  who  ruled  his  parish  on  the 
principle  of  the  more  ancient  feudal  baronets  of  the 
land,  had  been,  after  all,  about  the  nearest  to  a  man 
he  had  met  amongst  them,  up  to  that  morning.  The 
others  he  had  found  rather  often  sunk  in  slothfulness, 
or  with  an  extent  and  variety  of  feminine  households  of 
near  and  remote  relationship  —  or  even  of  no  relation- 


ANNE  CARMEL  83 

ship  at  all  —  which  had  occurred  to  him  as  unwise 
for  the  parsonage  of  a  celibate.  Without  having 
thought  of  it,  he  had  the  impression  that  there  would 
be  no  women  around  the  presbytere  of  St.  Hilaire. 

When  he  came  on  the  main  street  of  the  village 
he  stopped  at  the  hotel,  whose  painted  signboard  hung 
out  over  the  road  after  the  manner  of  that  of  an  old 
English  inn.  There  were  several  women  sitting  on 
the  porch,  —  women  who  proved  that  the  beauty  of 
that  other  down  among  the  silver  birches  was,  at  any 
rate,  not  the  unbroken  rule  of  St.  Hilaire.  He  asked 
them  the  way  to  the  presbytere.  Was  it  M.  Carmel 
he  wished  to  see  ?  they  demurred,  not  quick  at  taking 
even  a  very  simple  idea.  The  Cure  had  not  told  his 
name,  but  Harnett  accepted  it  on  the  chance.  The 
women  pointed  out  the  presbytere  to  him,  and  as  he 
went  on  up  the  stone  walk  he  knew  that  they  were 
looking  after  him  and  giggling.  His  hunting  clothes, 
or  himself,  had  usually  a  way  of  exciting  mirth  and 
quite  audible  comment  among  the  habitants,  as  he  had 
found  before. 

The  presbytere  stood  next  to  the  big  stone  church. 
It  was  a  white  house,  of  rough  granite  and  mortar, 
with  a  red  tin-shingled  roof.  And  it  was  at  the  end 
of  a  long  garden.  The  garden  ran  down  hill  to  the 
street  for  about  fifty  yards,  and  the  path  to  the  porch 
led  him  between  two  rows  of  double  dahlia  bushes, 
blood-red  even  in  the  colorless  evening.  There  were 


34  ANNE   CARMEL 

other  beds  of  flowers  ;  the  garden  was  gorgeous  with 
them  —  blue  larkspur,  and  pinks,  sunflowers,  cocks 
combs,  hollyhocks,  lady's-slippers,  and  a  few  late  poppies. 
But  the  blood-red  dahlias  on  either  side  of  the  path, 
almost  meeting  across  it,  and  growing  along  the  white 
paling  fence  —  those  were  the  glory  of  the  place.  And 
the  trees  were  bending  under  crimson  apples  and  crab- 
apples,  prunes,  and  native  cherries.  The  snell  bushes 
were  red  with  their  unripe  fruit.  His  Cure  was  no 
ascetic,  at  any  rate. 

There  had  been  a  shorter  way  from  the  river  to  the 
presbytere  —  through  the  bushes  and  across  a  meadow. 
Anne  had  come  by  it,  and  by  the  back  gate.  Harnett, 
going  up  the  path  through  the  garden,  saw  his  gray 
woman  of  the  silver  birches  turn  the  corner  of  the 
house  and  move  down  toward  him.  The  crimson 
dahlias  brushed  back  from  her,  and  there  was  still  a 
crimson  spot  over  her  heart.  Her  long  steps  were 
hardly  the  glide  of  a  ghost,  but  it  was  rather  like  some 
wraith  of  the  dusk,  with  the  stain  of  her  violent  death 
always  showing.  He  stopped  and  waited  for  her  to 
reach  him. 

"I  am  Monsieur  Carmel's  sister,"  she  said  to  him. 
He  saw  the  resemblance  at  once,  even  in  the  twilight. 
Her  head  was  as  well  poised  as  the  priest's.  The 
Cure,  she  went  on  to  tell  him,  had  had  a  letter  from 
Montreal  in  the  morning.  It  had  called  him  there  on 
the  business  of  the  parish.  He  had  taken  the  after- 


ANNE   CARMEL  35 

noon  malle  to  the  railroad.  Harnett  was  paying  less 
attention  to  what  she  said  than  to  the  voice  that  said  it. 
It  was  curiously  deep  and  rich  for  a  woman  —  the 
voice.  He  remembered  having  once  heard  a  primitive 
musical  instrument  made  of  woods,  from  which  much 
the  same  low  resonant  sound  had  come  when  it  was 
struck.  It  was  to  hear  more  of  the  voice,  rather  than 
to  meet  her  mother,  that  he  went  up  to  the  house  with 
her.  He  was  not,  as  a  rule,  at  all  keen  over  making 
the  acquaintance  of  women,  having  the  constraint  in 
their  presence,  so  long  as  they  were  strangers  to  him, 
of  the  average  young  Englishman.  But  he  had  no 
good  reason  to  give  for  turning  back,  and  he  felt  some 
curiosity  as  to  what  the  mother  of  this  brother  and 
sister  would  be  like. 

He  found  her  to  be  a  woman  evidently  well  past 
fifty,  not  so  tall  as  her  daughter,  but  with  the  marks  of 
having  been  even  more  handsome  once,  and  in  a  more 
formidable  fashion.  She  had  dark  eyes,  and  brows  that 
were  very  black,  though  her  hair  was  iron-streaked. 
And  her  hands  were  cracked  with  work.  He  disliked 
to  touch  a  woman's  hand  when  it  was  rough  and  hard. 
He  glanced  at  Mademoiselle  Carmel's  hands  as  she 
turned  up  the  lamp.  They  were  large  and  looked 
firm.  But  they  were  not  cracked  or  rough,  and  they 
were  uncommonly  well  shaped. 

He  sat  in  the  stiff  little  sitting  room,  talking  to  the 
two  women  for  almost  an  hour.  They  spoke  English 


36  ANNE  CAKMEL 

as  well  as  the  Cure  himself.  Madame's  father  had 
been  an  Englishman,  she  told  him,  and  her  own  hus 
band  had  been  half  American,  from  a  French-Canadian 
settlement  in  Massachusetts.  It  accounted  to  Har- 
nett's  mind  for  the  superior  type  of  the  grandchildren. 

When  he  went  he  told  them  that  he  was  to  leave 
for  the  mountains  at  daybreak.  In  all  probability 
he  would  not  see  them  again.  He  looked  into  Anne 
Carmel's  gray  eyes,  and  could  not  look  away  at  once. 

Two  evenings  after  that  he  camped  again  across  the 
river  from  St.  Hilaire. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THOSE  are  in  the  infinitely  small  minority  who  plan 
a  course  of  procedure  and  deliberately  follow  it  out, 
and  the  more  especially  if  the  course  be  a  not  too 
creditable  one.  It  is  a  concession  to  virtue,  in  a  way, 
perhaps,  though  there  is  less  of  inherent  virtue  in  it, 
than  of  saving  one's  self-esteem  by  blinking  the  possi 
bilities  of  one's  own  unworthiness.  And  it  was  not  at 
all  with  the  formed  intention  of  doing  Anne  Carmel 
any  wrong  that  Harnett  came  back  to  St.  Hilaire. 

Sometimes  it  happens  to  one  to  see  a  certain  flower 
or  blade  of  grass  at  a  distance  from  where  one  chances 
to  be  in  the  fields  or  woods.  There  is  no  especial 
desire  to  have  it.  The  glance  has  been  quite  idle  and 
unthinking.  It  may  be  a  flower  or  blade  of  grass  like 
another,  and  there  are  as  good  or  better  to  be  had  for 
the  reaching  out  of  the  hand.  One  does  not  give  it  a 
second  conscious  thought.  Yet  before  long  one  will 
rise  up  and  go  absently  over,  and  come  back  again, 
before  realizing  that  the  thing  one  did  not,  and  does 
not,  particularly  want  is  in  one's  hands. 

It  was  the  way  in  which  Harnett  had  come  back  to 

37 


38  ANNE  CARMEL 

St.  Hilaire.  The  end  of  the  day's  hunt  had  brought 
him  near  there.  He  went  over  the  river  to  the  pres- 
bytere  and  took  some  game.  Monsieur  Carmel  had 
not  returned.  He  was  still  in  Montreal,  and  had 
planned  for  a  hunting  trip  of  his  'own  afterward,  with 
some  friends  of  his  college  days.  He  went  off  in  that 
way  once  every  year  when  it  could  be  arranged. 
Anne  Carmel  told  him  so  as  she  stood  under  the  arch 
of  the  old  stone  gateway  of  the  cemetery,  beside  the 
church.  The  bell  clanged  out  suddenly.  While  it 
kept  on  they  could  not  make  their  voices  heard.  They 
stood  waiting.  The  tones  of  bronze  were  booming 
through  the  evening  air  till  the  ground  seemed  to 
shake  and  quiver.  A  ray  of  the  sun,  slanting  through 
some  elms  and  across  the  grass-hidden  graves,  showed 
hot  red  lights  in  the  heavy  knot  of  hair  at  Mademoiselle 
Carmel's  neck. 

Harnett  was  glad  he  had  come  back.  And  he  was 
glad  the  Cure  was  away. 

Afterward  he  stayed  on  near  St.  Hilaire  because 
he  wished  to.  It  was  usually,  so  far  as  he  knew,  his 
only  reason  for  doing  things.  His  was  of  those  direct 
natures  which  take  care  of  the  actions  and  let  the 
motives  take  care  of  themselves.  Motives  were  things 
made  much  of  in  a  certain  modern  school  of  emascu 
lated  fiction  with  which  he  did  not  concern  himself, 
and  which  gave  them  an  undue  importance.  In  the 
matter  of  stopping  on  at  St.  Hilaire,  he  had  time 


ANNE  CABMEL  39 

at  his  disposal  to  do  with  as  he  liked,  and  having  seen 
Anne  Carmel  twice  he  wanted  to  see  her  again.  He 
was  not  aware  of  any  underlying  instigation.  And 
he  did  not  take  consequences  into  consideration  any 
more  than  does  the  greater  part  of  mankind,  which, 
after  all,  acts  habitually  with  about  as  much  view  to 
consequences  in  the  least  remote  as  do  the  beasts  that 
perish;  as  little  heeding  as  those,  apparently  that  a 
deed  must  needs  be  Janus-faced,  —  according  as  one 
looks  at  it  from  the  future  or  from  the  past,  a  con 
sequence  or  a  cause,  —  and  that  it  cannot  die  childless. 
If  Harnett  was  glad  the  Cure  was  away,  it  was 
only  because,  otherwise,  he  would  have  had  to  see 
more  of  the  brother  than  of  the  sister.  As  it  was 
he  met  Anne  several  times  by  the  river  front.  It  was 
a  chance  each  time,  but  a  chance  which  both  had  made 
possible.  Anne  had  never  before  gone  so  often  down 
to  the  narrow  white  beach,  and  Harnett  walked  on 
the  St.  Hilaire  side  of  the  river,  or  spent  a  great  part 
of  his  time  fishing  and  rowing  about  in  the  leaky,  flat- 
bottomed  boat.  Anne  would  hear  the  clicking  of  the 
oars  on  the  iron  pivots,  and  the  boat  would  come 
around  some  little  point  or  clump  of  bushes.  So 
they  met  several  times  when  no  one,  except  perhaps 
some  villager,  knew  it;  and  though  Harnett  went 
once  to  the  presbytere  again,  it  happened  that  Madame 
Carmel  was  not  there.  He  sat  with  Anne  upon  the 
porch  behind  the  sheltering  madeira  vines.  And 


40  ANNE  CARMEL 

when  he  was  leaving  to  go  back  to  his  camp,  Anne 
walked  down  the  long  path  with  him,  between  the 
brushing  dahlia  bushes.  They  stood  by  the  gate  for 
a  time,  under  the  low  maples.  It  was  a  heavy  night, 
thick  with  clouds.  The  darkness  was  dense  and  dull 
and  warm.  He  could  not  see  Anne.  But  she  was 
close  to  him,  very  close.  They  spoke  in  low  voices, 
indistinctly,  to  beat  off  a  silence  which  was  settling 
down  as  stifling  and  fraught  as  the  night.  Anne's 
voice  was  more  deep  and  more  vibrant.  The  un 
easy  effort  grew  less,  and  there  was  a  pause.  Harnett 
was  afraid  of  it.  It  was  numbing  him.  He  could 
have  gone  even  then.  But  he  did  not.  Instead  he 
made  the  last  struggle  against  the  silence.  He  spoke 
again.  But  his  lips  were  unsteady,  and  Anne  did  not 
hear  him  —  or  she  could  not  answer.  The  silence 
which  had  been  closing  closed  then.  She  was  near 
in  the  heavy  darkness.  And  there  was  darkness  and 
silence  over  his  brain  too.  He  put  out  his  hands,  and 
they  touched  Anne's  head.  He  took  it  between  them 
and  bent  down  his  face  against  her  warm,  thick  hair. 

When  he  moved  and  left  her  he  went  back  through 
the  still,  black  village  and  rowed  across  the  river. 
The  click  of  his  oars  on  the  pivots  and  the  following 
splash  of  the  oars  sounded  loud  and  insistent  and  even, 
through  all  the  cloud-dense  night.  It  kept  on  dully 
in  his  ears  after  he  had  landed  and  gone  into  his  tent. 


ANNE  OARMEL  41 

He  heard  it  until  he  fell  asleep  on  his  spruce  bough 
bed,  face  downward  on  his  folded  arms,  feeling  yet  the 
warm,  thick  hair,  the  pulse  of  her  throat  under  his 
palms,  and  the  quiver  of  the  cold  lips  against  his  own. 

He  awoke  to  daylight  and  a  hard  rain,  and  when 
he  had  had  his  breakfast  with  the  half-breed  guide 
he  lay  back  on  the  pile  of  boughs  and  blankets  again 
and  tried  to  read  —  a  Juvenal  of  the  Cure's  that  Anne 
had  lent  him.  But  even  the  sharp-cut  Latin  of  the 
sentences  would  not  get  into  his  mind.  He  put  down 
the  book,  clasped  his  hands  under  his  neck,  and  lay 
looking  out  at  the  gray,  streaking  rain.  Certain 
things  were  very  plain  to  him ;  the  rest  he  refused  to 
see.  What  was  plain  was  this  —  that  he  was  in  love 
with  Anne  Carmel  a  good  deal  more  than  he  had  ever 
been  with  any  woman  in  his  eight  and  twenty  fairly 
well  experienced  years,  and  that  he  probably  would 
not  be  able  to  marry  her. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  felt  any  disad 
vantage  in  being  dependent  for  his  means  and  liveli 
hood  upon  another.  So  far  as  that  went,  it  had  never 
concerned  him,  especially  up  to  then.  In  the  manner 
of  heirs  to  the  estates  of  aristocratic  lands,  he  had 
taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  should  be  sup 
ported  without  effort  of  his  own  by  the  senior  of  the 
family.  The  senior  was,  in  this  case,  an  uncle,  his 
mother's  brother,  and  he  himself  was  an  orphan  —  had 
been  since  before  he  could  remember.  And  he  had 


42  ANNE  CARMEL 

never  been  an  idler,  as  he  saw  the  thing.  He  had 
done  himself  credit  at  school  and  college,  and  his  time 
since  then  had  gone,  for  the  most  part,  to  study  and 
to  employments  that  were  useful  to  others,  if  not 
remunerative  to  his  own  purse.  He  was  a  man  of 
mountains  and  plains  and  forests,  rather  than  of  clubs 
and  drawing-rooms  and  the  turf.  As  a  consequence, 
his  self-respect  was  still  intact.  And  this  though  he 
had  nothing  whatever  and  was,  so  far,  of  no  particular 
consequence.  Whereas  his  uncle  had  much  and  was 
powerful.  Upon  that  uncle  depended  his  present  liv 
ing  and  any  future  success.  To  obtain  those  he  had 
only  not  to  prove  troublesome. 

He  would  be  proving  very  troublesome  in  wanting 
to  marry  Anne  Carmel.  The  uncle  was  a  man  having 
no  notion  whatever  of  that  best  sort  of  generosity 
which  permits  another  to  live  his  own  life,  even 
though  the  manner  of  doing  so  may  happen  to  con 
flict  with  preconceptions  and  theories.  If  his  nephew 
were  to  run  counter  to  him,  he  would  drop  him,  once 
and  for  all.  And  his  right  to  do  so  was  unquestion 
able. 

Harnett  knew  it.  And  he  knew  now  that  it  was 
humiliating.  He  had  been  trained  to  no  profession 
or  work.  His  life  was  altogether  an  agreeable  one  at 
present.  It  would  cease  to  be  so  in  nearly  every 
respect,  however,  if  he  were  to  insist  upon  marrying 
Anne  Carmel.  That  his  uncle  would  object  to  her,  he 


ANNE  CAEMBL  43 

was  certain  without  the  trouble  of  asking.  Apart 
from  the  fact  that  it  was  long  planned  to  dispose  of 
him  otherwise  matrimonially,  there  was  a  yet  more 
serious  obstacle.  His  uncle  despised  no  cue  thing 
more  intensely  than  a  French  Canadian.  The  prej 
udice  was  the  result  of  personal  experience.  By 
reason  of  interests  and  of  past  long  residence  in  the 
country,  Harnett's  uncle  was  as  much  a  Canadian  as  an 
Englishman.  And  he  shared  the  English  Canadian's 
common  dislike  of  and  contempt  for  the  French  in 
habitants.  But  in  his  case  it  went  even  further  than 
the  usual  political  and  racial  prejudice  against  a  people 
held  as  priest-infected,  unprogressive,  unassimilative, 
and  of  a  speech  and  genius  forever  foreign  to  those  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon.  It  was  a  detestation  of  Gallic  blood 
and  characteristics  in  all  their  manifestations,  worthy 
the  days  of  the  Napoleonic  wars.  He  had  come  of  a 
line  untainted  by  Norman  grafting,  and  had  quarrelled 
violently  with  his  only  sister  for  that  she  had  married 
a  man  whose  name  of  Harnett  was  proof  of  cross - 
channel  origin. 

A  French  Canadian,  the  penniless  daughter  of  a 
Montreal  office-holder,  having  for  brother  an  obscure 
village  priest, — it  was  the  most  completely  unfavorable 
combination  that  could  possibly  have  been  hit  upon. 
Anne  herself  would  not  weigh  a  grain  against  it  all  in 
the  falsed  scales  of  his  uncle's  judgment.  Neverthe 
less,  he  would  ask  permission  to  marry  her.  It  would 


44  ANNE   CARMEL 

not  be  granted.  In  that  entirely  certain  event,  in 
what  position  was  he  to  make  any  declaration  of 
independence  ?  He  wished  angrily  and  for  the  first 
time  that  he  had  means  of  his  own,  or  at  least  a  pro 
fession.  And  for  the  first  time,  too,  there  dawned  on 
him  the  wrong  that  was  done  a  man  bred  to  the 
customs  and  conditions  that  he  himself  had  been  bred 
to.  He  was  not  left  the  power  over  his  own  manhood. 

It  was  still  raining  hard,  with  no  prospect  of  stop 
ping.  But  he  wanted  to  see  Anne  Carmel  again,  and 
now.  Madame  Carmel  was  to  be  at  the  Tetrault  farm 
all  the  morning,  and  Anne  would  be  alone.  He  did 
not  care  to  see  a  great  deal  of  madame.  She  might 
bethink  herself  to  oblige  him  to  be  more  explicit  than 
he  could  very  well  be  just  then.  It  was  one  thing  to 
be  satisfied  himself  with  the  integrity  of  his  intentions. 
It  might  conceivably  be  another  to  satisfy  a  village 
woman  who  could  have  no  notion  of  the  exigencies  of 
station.  If  she  were  not  satisfied,  it  might  result  in  his 
seeing  nothing  more  of  Anne,  and  to  see  her  often 
was  the  one  wish  he  was  fully  conscious  of  at  present. 

In  pursuance  of  it  he  got  up  from  the  blankets  and 
put  on  his  oilskin  coat,  and  rowed  himself  across  the 
river.  As  he  went  along  the  little  side  street  between 
the  white  cottages  and  the  red-weighted,  dripping 
apple  trees,  the  women  at  the  windows  beckoned  their 
husbands  and  children  to  come  and  see  the  tall  young 
Englishman  in  the  wet  yellow  coat,  who  trudged  dog- 


ANNE   CARMEL  45 

gedly  by  in  the  rain,  his  shoulders  thrust  forward. 
He  was  Mademoiselle  Carmel's  lover.  They  had 
already  settled  that.  The  villagers  and  children  who 
had  seen  the  meetings  by  the  river  shore  had  not  been 
silent. 

Anne  was  by  a  window  also.  She  looked  up  from 
the  patch  quilt  she  was  sewing  as  she  heard  the  crunch 
of  purposeful  feet  on  the  gravel  of  the  walk,  and  she 
saw  the  figure  in  the  glistening  yellow  oilskin  coat 
coming  up  between  the  long  rows  of  crimson  dahlias. 
She  laid  down  the  piece  of  quiltwork,  and  went  to 
open  the  door  for  him. 

If  Madame  Carmel  was  away,  however,  Amelie 
Latouche,  the  Cure's  servant,  was  in  the  house.  She 
had  heard  the  village  gossip,  and  she  made  it  a  point 
during  the  hour  that  Harnett  stayed  to  pass  the  door 
or  the  window,  or  to  go  in  and  out  of  the  room  con 
stantly.  Harnett  fancied  being  spied  upon  still  less 
than  he  would  have  fancied  open  questioning.  It  irri 
tated  him.  He  jlid  not  intend  to  submit  to  anything 
of  the  sort,  and  he  told  Anne  so.  If  they  were  to  see 
each  other,  it  would  have  to  be  where  that  could  not 
go  on. 

Anne  sat  looking  at  him  for  a  moment.  She  was 
seeing  deep  behind  his  blue,  determined  English  eyes. 
She  was  seeing  the  thing  exactly  as  it  was,  that  his 
love  for  her  could  be  subservient  to  his  stubbornness 
or  his  anger.  It  was  less  to  him  to  have  done  with 


46  ANNE   CA11MEL 

her  than  to  be  subjected  to  annoyance  or  humiliation. 
But  she  was  not  the  first  woman  to  knowingly  give  a 
good  love  for  a  poorer  one  and  be  happy  over  the 
barter.  There  was  no  one  about  at  the  instant.  She 
stood  up  slowly  and  went  over  to  him  and  knelt  down 
beside  his  chair.  She  laid  her  head  against  his  arm, 
putting  her  hands  in  his. 

And  for  three  times  after  that  she  met  him  openly, 
by  daylight,  on  the  river  bank,  as  she  had  done  before. 
Then  Amelie  Latouche  told  Madame  Carmel  of  it. 
And  that  day  Anne  was  not  at  the  meeting-place. 
But  late  at  night  she  went  down  through  the  meadow 
and  heavy  bushes,  unchained  her  boat  from  its  rocks 
and  rowed  across  the  river.  She  had  always  had  a 
terror  of  the  dark,  and  she  was  miserably  frightened; 
and  the  click  of  the  oars  seemed  to  spread  out  through 
the  night  under  the  sounding  vault  of  the  star-flecked 
sky.  Harnett,  lying  awake  in  his  tent,  heard  it,  faint 
and  far  off  across  the  broad  river  at  first,  but  coming 
nearer.  He  went  out  and  saw  a  boat  under  the  black 
shadow  of  the  shore.  The  half-breed  had  heard  too, 
and  came  up  beside  him.  "  Go  back,"  ordered  Harnett 
shortly,  and  went  down  to  the  bank  alone.  He  ex 
pected  to  see  Jean  Carmel.  When  he  found  that  it 
was  Anne  he  thought  of  the  guide  again.  "  Be  quiet," 
he  said,  "don't  speak."  He  stepped  into  the  boat 
himself.  "Now,"  he  told  her,  "put  off,  and  keep  in 
the  shadow."  Upon  her  account  he  did  not  choose 


ANNE  CARMEL  47 

to  have  his  guide  telling  in  St.  Hilaire  that  she  had 
come  to  the  camp  at  midnight.  But  he  was  glad  that 
she  had  come ;  and  now  that  she  had  been  the  first  to 
make  the  move,  he  was  more  than  willing  to  meet  her 
in  some  such  way  again. 

Yet  he  was  not  the  one  who  suggested  it.  It  was 
she  herself.  "  I  cannot  come  in  the  daylight,  because 
I  am  watched  then,"  she  finished,  "  but  I  can  come  at 
night,  until  the  time  when  that  also  is  discouraged." 
She  was  like  her  brother  in  the  choice  of  her  English 
words,  and  in  her  low-pitched  voice  it  gave  weight  to 
her  meaning. 

Did  he  remember  the  quarry  in  Napoleon  Coppee's 
pasture  ?  she  asked.  Harnett  had  found  it  one  day  in 
his  walks.  "  I  will  go  there,"  she  said. 

He  had  her  put  him  ashore  well  above  his  camp,  and 
he  stood  waiting  and  listening  until  she  had  reached 
the  opposite  shore  and  the  click  of  the  oars  had 
stopped.  Then  he  went  back  along  the  beach  to  his 
camp. 

The  half-breed  reached  it  some  minutes  before  him. 

But  the  opposition  from  a  source  from  which  he  had 
no  disinheritance  to  fear  had  its  effect  upon  Harnett. 
It  made  him  very  nearly  decide  to  have  Anne  at  any 
cost,  even  at  that  of  his  income  and  his  future  and  his 
station  in  life.  And  those,  after  all,  were  really  more 
to  him  than  the  mere  life  itself.  A  man  of  the  upper 
classes,  thrown  suddenly  down  from  them,  and  de- 


48  ANNE  CAKMEL 

prived,  when  half  his  days  are  already  gone,  of  his 
accustomed  means  of  support,  is  as  much  to  be  pitied 
as  the  workingman  who  loses  the  use  of  the  right  arm 
that  has  gained  him  his  bread.  He  shrinks  from  the 
misfortune  —  but  he  can  hardly  be  set  down  as  a 
coward  for  that. 

Harnett  considered  the  advisability  of  going  directly 
to  Madame  Carmel  and  claiming  the  right  to  see  Anne 
openly,  as  the  woman  he  meant  to  marry.  But  it  was 
not  advisable.  In  the  event  of  a  break  with  his  uncle, 
he  would  not  be  able  to  support  himself  in  comfort  for 
several  years  ahead,  at  the  least,  and  much  less  so  a 
wife.  And  even  if  madame  were  to  consent  to  her 
daughter  being  bound  by  any  such  uncertainty,  she 
might  put  him  to  the  test  of  serving  for  Anne  without 
seeing  her.  And  see  Anne  to  the  last  possible  minute 
he  would.  That  determination  was  stronger  than  his 
previous  honorable  habits,  stronger  than  his  usual  good 
sense  —  much  stronger  than  his  consideration  for  Anne 
herself.  But  he  was  in  a  hard  position,  and  he  himself 
was  not  to  blame  for  it,  nor  to  be  punished  for  it  by 
depriving  himself. 

That  he  ought  not  to  see  her  at  any  such  hour  as 
midnight,  or  any  such  place  as  the  limestone  quarry,  he 
knew,  however,  as  well  as  another  man  must  have 
known  it.  A  better  impulse  than  his  selfishness  got 
the  mastery  for  a  while.  He  decided  to  put  a  stop  to 
the  meeting,  if  he  could  get  word  to  her. 


ANNE  CARMEL  49 

He  was  walking,  then,  on  the  St.  Hilaire  side  of  the 
river.  He  turned  about  on  the  road  and  started  back 
toward  the  village.  It  was  only  noon,  however,  and 
he  had  plenty  of  time  to  act.  So  he  went  slowly,  look 
ing  at  nothing  in  particular.  He  saw  the  little  yellow 
butterflies  flutter  and  settle  on  the  dusty  goldenrod 
and  white  daisies  and  purple  vetch,  and  the  grass 
hoppers  snap  up  from  the  road  into  the  choked  grass 
by  the  wayside.  He  stopped  once  to  try  the  wild 
grapes  on  a  vine  that  hung  from  a  beech  tree.  They 
were  green  yet  and  acrid.  And  once  he  amused  him 
self  for  a  full  ten  minutes  cutting  off  the  path  of  a 
soil-powdered  caterpillar  by  putting  across  its  way 
a  switch  he  was  carrying.  Yet  he  was  thinking  of 
anything  but  the  trivial  plant  and  insect  life  about 
him.  Life  and  all  its  problems  were  centred  in 
himself  —  that  egoism  which  is,  after  all,  Heaven- 
appointed  to  the  perpetuation  of  the  race  and  the 
saving  of  the  soul.  It  is  a  matter  for  the  jest  and 
smile  of  the  shallow-sighted,  the  struggle  in  a  human 
heart  between  the  love  of  some  one  creature  and  the 
chance  of  worldly  preferment.  But  it  is  the  struggle 
between  the  force  of  civilization  and  the  force  of  na 
ture,  concentrated  for  the  time  being  within  himself. 

At  the  moment  the  more  primitive  instinct  was 
mastering  Harnett.  Then  two  pink  pigs  came  trot 
ting  out  from  a  gateway  and  stopped  directly  in  front 
of  him,  grunting  a  challenge,  their  clean  little  snouts 


50  ANNE  CARMEL 

pointed  up  at  him,  twitching  inquiringly.  He  stood 
still,  looking  down  at  them.  They  were  quaint 
beasts,  with  their  appearance  of  having  been,  like  the 
cottages  of  most  of  the  natives,  always  newly  scrubbed, 
and  the  expression  in  their  twinkling  pink  eyes  was 
amusingly  impertinent. 

Under  ordinary  conditions,  an  ordinary  pig  was 
hardly  a  creature  to  play  with.  But  he  stooped  down 
and  held  out  an  empty  palm,  deceivingly  hollowed. 
They  were  knowing  pigs,  however,  and  they  showed 
the  futility  of  the  attempt  in  the  very  kink  of  their 
tails,  then,  with  another  series  of  grunts,  moved  off 
side  by  side.  Their  rosy  hind  quarters  were  derisive. 
Harnett  looked  up  and  saw  that  a  woman  was  watch 
ing  him,  leaning  over  the  fence,  her  apron  full  of  ears 
of  sweet  corn. 

"  M'sieu'  likes  pigs  ?  "  she  said. 

"It  depends  upon  the  pigs,"  Harnett  told  her,  still 
in  the  good  humor  these  had  induced. 

"  We  have  more,"  said  the  woman ;  "  would  m'sieu' 
care  to  see  them?" 

M'sieu'  was  not  possessed  by  any  special  desire  to  look 
over  the  porcine  stock  of  the  farm,  but  it  was  a  habit 
of  his  travelling  to  take  in  what  came  in  his  way 
and  offered.  The  habitant  woman  was  not  lovely,  nor 
had  she  the  appearance  of  outward  cleanliness  of  her 
own  pigs,  but  she  promised  to  be  talkative,  and  might 
be  entertaining.  Life  had  been  at  high  tension  for 


ANNE  CARMBL  51 

Harriett  in  the  past  week ;  he  was  glad  to  ease  it  for 
a  little  while. 

The  rest  of  the  pigs  were  in  a  field  of  stubble,  and 
were  much  like  the  two  others  except  that  several 
of  them  wore  a  portable  stock  of  wood  which  evidently 
weighed  on  their  spirits  as  much  as  on  their  poor 
rubbed  little  necks,  and  interfered  considerably  with 
rooting.  "  To  keep  them  from  going  under  the  wire 
fences  and  scratching  themselves,"  explained  the 
woman.  She  was  the  wife  of  Farmer  Tetrault,  and 
the  Tetraults  were  proud  of  their  modern  farm 
appliances.  The  barbed  wire  fences  were,  in  their 
opinion,  a  vast  improvement  upon  the  snake  or  stone 
ones  of  the  other  terres.  Madame  Tetrault  was  not 
only  talkative,  as  it  proved  —  she  was  garrulous  and 
a  gossip.  She  invited  Harnett  into  the  house  and 
showed  it  to  him  with  pride.  Her  furniture  was  all 
from  Montreal.  Its  cheap  hideousness  was,  to  his 
mind,  its  only  distinction.  But  the  woman  amused 
him  even  more  than  the  pigs  had  done.  He  set  her 
down  as  a  simple  and  communicative  soul,  of  a  vul 
garity  so  entire  and  so  frank  as  almost  to  cease  to  be 
such.  But  however  communicative  and  frankly  vul 
gar  Madame  Tetrault  might  be,  she  was  not  simple. 
She  had  heard  of  Harnett.  She  had  heard  of  his  meet 
ings  with  Anne  Carmel,  as  had  every  inhabitant  of  the 
parish  after  the  last  Sunday's  mass.  She  too  believed 
that  he  was  Mademoiselle  Carmel's  lover,  but  she  put 


52  ANNE  CARMEL 

a  less  pleasant  interpretation  on  it  than  did  the  rest  of 
the  people.  And  she  wanted  to  get  a  damaging  con 
fession  straight  from  Harnett's  own  lips,  to  use  it  as 
an  argument  with  her  son  and  turn  his  attentions  from 
the  Cure's  penniless  sister  to  the  daughter  of  rich 
Farmer  Lavisse.  Madame  Tetrault  loved  money. 

"  You  know  Anne  Carmel  ?  "  began  madame,  in  her 
barbarous  French.  Harnett  admitted  it  coolly,  with 
a  disconcerting  indifference.  Madame  felt  it,  but  was 
not  to  be  stopped  so  easily.  "  You  like  her  ?  "  His 
reply  that  he  did  was  equally  unimpassioned.  "You 
have  met  her  down  by  the  river,"  she  said,  nodding  her 
head  knowingly,  her  black  eyes  taking  on  something 
the  expression  of  the  pale  ones  of  the  pigs.  "  Ah  ! " 
she  shook  her  finger  at  him,  "  I  know.  But  you  are 
not  the  first.  She  has  had  many  lovers  —  Mademoiselle 
Carmel  —  it  is  a  pity  —  and  the  Cure  is  so  good.  If  he 
knew  —  " 

Harnett's  own  French  was  not  facile,  but  he  was 
aware  of  the  full  difference  in  the  shade  of  the  word 
"amant"  and  its  English  equivalent  in  literal  trans 
lation.  And  if  he  had  not,  Madame  Tetrault's  tone 
and  looks  would  have  admitted  of  no  doubt  as  to 
her  meaning.  He  had,  for  an  instant,  the  primitive 
male  instinct  to  kill  the  faithless  female.  Then  the 
customs  of  generations  curdled  it  to  an  accommodating 
cynicism.  He  did  not  encourage  Madame  Tetrault, 
but  neither  did  he  keep  her  from  getting  in  a  few  cor- 


ANNE   CARMEL  53 

roborative  details  to  enforce  her  insinuation,  before  he 
left.  Madame  invented  the  details  out  of  hand,  carried 
away  with  the  satisfaction  of  it.  She  detested  Anne 
Carmel,  but  it  was  the  first  time  she  had  dared  to  lie 
so  comprehensively  and  broadly  about  her,  since  the 
sentiment  of  the  parish  was  contrary. 

A  disease  finds  best  lodgement  in  a  body  already 
enfeebled,  and  an  evil  report  in  a  mind  not  quite  strong 
in  its  own  integrity.  And  when  Harnett  went  out  of 
the  gate  and  on  to  the  road  again,  he  had  already  deter 
mined  that  he  would  not  trouble  to  send  any  word  to 
Anne  Carmel.  She  might  meet  him  at  the  limestone 
quarry  at  midnight  —  as  she  herself,  with  the  facility 
born  of  practice,  no  doubt,  had  suggested.  Anne  paid 
now  the  inevitable  debt  for  her  step  outside  the  safe 
guards  of  convention.  He  saw  her  easy  surrender  to  his 
wishes,  and  above  all  her  visit  to  his  camp,  in  a  new  light. 
What  a  fool  she  must  have  thought  him,  to  be  sure,  for 
his  pains  to  hide  her  presence  from  the  guide  that 
night,  to  keep  her  from  landing  on  the  shore.  And  it 
was  for  this  Lais  of  a  backwoods  settlement  that  he 
had  worked  himself  to  the  verge  of  heroics.  He  had 
been  hit  hard,  and  it  hurt.  So  he  raised  his  shoulders 
and  laughed  unpleasantly.  As  instruments  of  interven 
tion  Fate  had  made  use  of  two  small  pink  pigs.  Two 
pink  pigs  with  twitching  snouts  and  crinkled  tails  had 
stood,  not  only  in  the  road  before  him,  but  in  the  path  he 
had  been  taking  toward  the  probable  wrecking  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  half-breed  guide  had  not  spent  a  number  of 
absolutely  idle  days  around  St.  Hilaire  for  nothing. 
He  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  villagers, 
and,  in  exchange  for  their  hospitality  at  the  tavern, 
had  kept  them  accurately  informed  as  to  Harnett's 
doings  and  his  own  interpretations  thereof.  The 
morning  that  Harnett  listened  to  Madame  Tetrault, 
the  blacksmith  and  church  furnisher,  the  director  of 
funeral  pomps  and  the  tailor,  all  weighty  and  im 
portant  citizens,  listened  to  the  account  of  how  Anne 
Carmel  had  gone  to  the  camp  across  the  river  the 
night  before.  A  few  hours  later  the  notary  was  told 
of  it,  and  he,  in  turn  repeated  it  to  Paul  Tetrault, 
who  was  in  to  see  him  on  business.  Paul  listened 
and  questioned.  But  it  was  not  in  the  spirit  in 
which  Harnett  had  listened  to  Madame  Tetrault  and 
refrained  from  questioning.  A  love  built  upon  the 
sands  of  mere  desire  may  fall  at  once  before  a  stream 
of  accusation,  but  that  which  has  its  foundation  on 
the  rock  of  trust  stands  a  better  chance.  Young 
Tetrault,  to  be  sure,  lacked  the  experience  of  life, 

54 


ANNE  CAEMEL  55 

and  of  himself,  which  made  scepticism  easy  to  Harnett. 
The  college  of  Montreal  and  the  parish  of  St.  Hilaire 
had  been  about  the  whole  field  of  his  observations. 
But  the  rule  of  the  drop  of  water  and  the  entire 
sea  is  that  of  humanity ;  and  the  village  in  the  back 
woods  is,  in  little,  pretty  much  as  are  the  wide  world 
and  its  citizens  on  a  larger  scale.  That  Harnett 
condemned  Anne  on  the  report  of  one  scandal-mon- 
gering  old  woman,  and  that  Tetrault  refused  to  upon 
excellent  evidence  were  mere  matters  of  personality. 
Harnett  decided  forthwith  to  let  Anne  hurt  herself. 
Tetrault  decided  as  promptly  to  prevent  it  if  he  could. 
But  it  was  as  fruitless  and  thankless  as  he  might  have 
foreseen. 

Anne  listened  to  what  he  had  to  say.  She  did 
not  have  recourse  to  the  cheap  device  of  outraged 
virtue.  In  any  case,  an  heroic  attitude  before  such  a 
figure  as  he  made  would  have  been  too  incongruous. 
And  he  was  not  impressive  when  he  fell  back,  in 
his  earnestness,  on  the  most  colloquial  French  of 
his  people.  Having  a  standard  of  comparison  close 
before  her,  she  could  not  help  finding  absurd  his 
curly  light  hair,  his  pink  and  white  skin,  and  his 
general  air  and  dress  of  a  village  tailor's  beau.  He 
wore  several  rings  with  jewels  in  them  on  his  short- 
fingered  hands.  Harnett's  hands  were  long  and  brown 
and  bare.  Anne  was  thinking  of  that  while  Tetrault 
urged  on  her,  desperately,  that  her  reputation  in  the 


56  ANNE  CARMEL 

parish  was  already  as  good  as  gone.  She  had  picked 
off  one  of  the  dahlias  and  had  been  standing,  pulling 
out  the  close  crimson  petals.  She  threw  it  away  sud 
denly  with  a  fillip  which  snapped  the  stem.  It  was 
a  sign  of  how  she  threw  away  any  caution.  "  I  can't 
help  it,  Paul ;  it  will  have  to  go,"  she  said. 

Tetrault  hesitated,  then  he  brought  himself  to  the 
point.  The  pink  of  his  cheeks  spread  into  the  roots  of 
his  tight  curly  hair.  "  Are  you  going  to  marry  him, 
Anne  ?  "  he  asked. 

Anne  hesitated  too.  Then  her  eyes  met  his  at  a 
level,  and  she  drew  a  long  breath.  Her  own  face  was 
dead  white.  "  No,"  she  told  him. 

He  went  away  and  left  her  after  that.  But  it  was 
not  because  he  had  done  with  her,  had  washed  his 
hands  of  the  matter.  The  means  of  persuasion  had 
failed,  to  be  sure,  but  there  were  other  ways.  That 
they  would  make  him  forever  detestable  to  Anne  was 
no  part  of  the  consideration.  He  was  not  thinking 
about  his  own  interests.  He  had  cared  for  Anne  from 
the  time  she  had  been  a  tall  child  of  seventeen  with  her 
hair  in  two  great  heavy  braids  over  her  shoulders,  and 
he  a  schoolboy  coming  back  for  the  summer  work  in 
the  fields.  He  was  not  going  to  desert  her  now  when 
she  needed  him.  As  for  speaking  to  Madame  Carmel, 
the  chances  that  it  would  only  precipitate  trouble  were 
excellent.  Her  brother  could  influence  Anne,  but  not 
her  mother;  he  had  seen  that  often  enough.  When 


ANNE   CARMEL  57 

Monsieur  Carmel  should  come  back  he  himself  would 
probably  step  aside.  But  until  then  he  meant  to  pre 
vent  any  more  night  meetings. 

To  that  end  he  came  in  from  the  farm  at  dark  and 
took  up  his  station  in  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  Cure's 
snell  bushes,  outside  the  fence.  Anne's  room  was  by 
itself,  built  on  to  the  side  of  the  presbytdre.  He 
could  watch  its  windows  and  the  front  door  and  the  back 
gate.  She  could  not  go  out,  or  Harnett  could  not  come 
in,  without  his  seeing  it. 

It  was  a  clear  night,  with  only  light  clouds  blown 
fast  across  the  sky.  The  wind  was  dry  and  strong. 
It  rustled  the  trees  and  whipped  them  up  and  down. 
At  the  horizon  was  a  hot  yellow  haze.  Tetrault  kept 
close  into  the  bush.  Once  he  picked  off  some  of 
the  red  fruits  and  bit  into  them.  He  threw  them 
away  again.  They  were  unripe  and  rough.  It  was 
lonely  work,  and  the  night  was  an  uneasy,  forebod 
ing  one.  He  was  uncomfortable.  And  he  was  not 
acting  with  the  support  of  any  set  purpose.  He  did 
not  know  what  he  meant  to  do,  not  even  just  why  he 
was  there.  His  intentions  were  of  the  best,  but  the 
good  intentions  of  a  weak  character  are  apt  to  be  inef 
fectual.  A  misdoubting  but  that  his  might  prove  so  was 
making  him  undecided.  And  he  grew  tired  waiting. 
It  seemed  hours  before  the  light  in  the  presbytere 
sitting  room  went  out.  Then  one  was  carried  into 
Anne's  room.  He  could  see  her  moving  about.  She 


58  ANNE  CARMEL 

stopped  in  front  of  her  mirror  and  took  down  her 
hair.  It  fell  brown  and  heavy.  She  stood  braiding  it 
into  two  long  braids  such  as  she  had  worn  years  before. 
Tetrault  thought  of  her  as  she  had  been  then,  and 
drew  the  back  of  his  thick  hand  across  his  eyes.  Then 
she  came  to  the  windows,  and,  leaning  out,  drew  the 
cumbersome  shutters  to.  The  house  was  quite  dark. 
Tetrault  settled  himself  to  a  longer  waiting.  The 
village  was  quiet.  The  last  men  went  home  from  the 
tavern,  singing  as  they  went,  one  of  the  inane,  point 
less,  reiterative  habitant  songs.  There  was  not  a 
footstep  after  that. 

But  at  the  end  of  more  than  an  hour  it  seemed  to 
him  that  there  was  in  the  air,  under  the  rustle  of  the 
dry  wind  in  the  leaves,  an  even,  regular,  clicking  sound. 
He  listened.  It  came  from  the  direction  of  the  river. 
It  was  not  a  night  sound.  It  was  something  else  — 
the  click  of  oars  on  their  iron  pivots.  One  of  the 
impulses  for  which  he  trusted  to  guidance  made  him 
run  along  the  fence,  across  the'  meadow,  and  down  to 
the  water.  He  did  not  stop  to  listen  again  for  the 
sound.  But  when  he  reached  the  beach  it  was  in  time 
to  see  a  boat  put  into  a  little  cove  among  some  weeds. 
He  heard  the  grate  of  the  bottom  on  small  stones.  He 
went  in  the  direction,  slowly,  keeping  among  the  alders, 
and  when  Harnett  came  out,  upon  a  clear  stretch  «f 
shore,  they  were  within  a  hundred  feet  of  each  other. 
But  Harnett  did  not  know  it.  And,  to  Tetrault's  sur- 


ANNE  CABMBL  59 

prise  he  did  not  start  off  in  the  direction  of  the  pres- 
bytere,  but  at  right  angles  to  it.  Tetrault  came  out 
from  his  hiding-place  and  followed.  He  had  put  on  an 
old  pair  of  bottes  indiennes  of  his  father's,  and  walked 
as  noiselessly  as  ever  had  any  of  his  voyageur  antece 
dents.  The  figure  ahead  passed  up  a  side  street  and 
straight  out  of  the  village.  Tetrault  was  puzzled 
almost  to  the  point  of  dropping  off.  But  he  kept  on, 
more  from  curiosity  now  than  any  better  motive.  A 
number  of  times  Harnett  looked  back.  But  Tetrault 
was  not  showing  himself.  They  passed  Coppee's 
cottage.  Just  beyond  it  was  the  tobacco  shed,  and  a 
gate -leading  into  a  narrow  lane.  Harnett  opened  the 
gate  noiselessly,  left  it  open,  and  went  up  the  lane. 
On  both  sides  there  were  a  stone  fence  and  a  line  of 
willow  trees.  Tetrault  got  in  among  the  willows. 
Farther  on  there  was  a  broken-barred  gate  in  the  fence. 
It  led  into  Coppee's  pasture.  The  figure  ahead  turned 
in  there,  and  crossed  the  pasture  toward  the  quarry. 
He  came  to  the  edge  of  it  and  looked  down,  then  back 
over  his  shoulder.  Tetrault  was  crouching  behind  the 
fence.  Harnett  spoke  in  a  deadened  voice.  "  Anne," 
he  said,  "Anne."  Tetrault  knew  well  enough  what  it 
all  meant  now.  There  was  no  answer.  The  English 
man  was  looking  down  into  the  quarry  again.  His 
back  was  toward  Tetrault.  The  habitant  crouched, 
watching,  his  eyes  on  a  level  with  the  top  stones  of  the 
fence.  There  were  trees  thick  about  the  quarry, 


60  ANNE  CARMEL 

stunted  crab-apples  and  snells  and  sumach  bushes. 
They  rustled  and  the  branches  of  the  apple  trees  tossed. 
There  were  crickets  humming  dryly.  It  was  an  uneasy 
night.  And  Anne,  who  was  so  afraid  of  the  dark  and 
loneliness,  who  always  had  been,  even  as  a  young  girl — 
he  was  letting  her  come  here,  the  Englishman,  letting 
her  come  by  herself  through  the  black  street  and  the 
lane  where  the  willow  trees  made  moving  shadows. 

And  down  in  the  quarry  it  was  darker  still  —  it 
was  deep  —  there  were  jagged  rocks  and  boulders 
and  a  pool  of  stagnant  water.  Tetrault's  hand  was 
on  the  top  of  the  fence.  It  was  lying  on  a  loose 
stone.  The  stone  was  not  big.  His  fingers  shut 
over  it.  It  was  sharp-pointed.  His  head  came  above 
the  level  of  the  fence.  He  was  straightening  himself 
cautiously.  His  eyes  were  on  the  figure  by  the  edge 
of  the  black,  deep  quarry  —  in  which  the  rocks  were 
ragged  and  the  pools  of  water  slimy.  His  arm  went 
out  and  back  —  then  forward  with  a  jerk.  The 
figure  staggered,  pitched  forward,  and  was  gone.  The 
branches  of  some  bushes  cracked  and  some  loose  stones 
clattered. 

Tetrault  looked  behind  him  down  the  lane.  There 
was  no  one  in  sight.  He  crouched  down  against  the 
wall  again  and  waited.  He  was  shaking  all  over. 
Perhaps  he  had  killed  the  Englishman.  Perhaps  he 
was  a  murderer.  He  was  in  a  hideous  fear.  The 
body  might  be  lying  down  there,  the  still  body  of  a 


ANNE  CARMBL  61 

man  among  the  weeds  and  sumach  bushes  and  pools 
of  stagnant  rain  water.  He  could  almost  have  gone 
to  see  —  with  that  abject  terror  which  is  courage  again. 
But  some  one  might  come  and  find  him  there.  They 
would  know  he  was  the  murderer,  and  he  would  be  — 
hung.  He  gave  a  low  squeal  of  animal  fright  between 
his  tight-clinched  teeth,  and  grovelled  closer  into  the 
wall  and  the  shadow. 

And  now  some  one  was  coming.  It  was  Anne,  hurry 
ing  up  the  lane  and  looking  behind  her.  He  knew 
that  she  was  afraid  too.  She  went  through  the  broken- 
barred  gate,  and  he  raised  his  head  and  watched  her. 
Would  she  go  away  again,  when  she  found  her  lover 
was  not  there?  Or  would  she  wait?  Or  would  she 
go  down  into  the  quarry,  climb  down  through  the 
whispering  sumach  bushes  into  the  big  black  hollow  ? 
It  was  an  evil  place  in  broad  day.  Nobody  came 
across  the  pasture  to  it  once  in  months  at  a  time. 

She  was  standing  where  the  Englishman  had  stood 
when  the  stone  from  an  unseen  hand  had  struck  him  — 
on  the  very  spot.  She  spoke.  He  could  hear  the 
voice,  but  not  what  she  said.  Then  he  could  see  her 
start  and  bend  forward  over  the  edge  of  the  quarry, 
listening.  She  was  speaking  again.  He  caught  a 
word  or  two,  in  French.  "  Wait,"  she  said,  "  I  am 
coming."  And  she  was  gone  into  the  thick  of  the 
bushes.  He  heard  her  pushing  her  way  through, 
heard  her  feet  slip,  and  the  loose  stones  fall.  She  was 


62  ANNE  CARMBL 

making  her  way,  scrambling  down  the  steep  side, 
where  the  rock  had  been  quarried  out  unevenly  in 
small  blocks.  Tetrault  came  from  under  the  shadow 
of  the  fence  and  crossed  the  pasture,  bending  low  as  he 
ran.  He  dropped  quietly  down  and  drew  himself  to 
the  edge  and  looked  over.  He  could  not  see.  But 
sounds  came  up  out  of  the  big  black  hole,  Anne's  voice 
quivering  with  misery,  and  a  moaned  word  or  two  in 
the  voice  of  a  man.  Then  the  Englishman  was  not 
dead — yet. 

Anne  was  speaking  —  gone  back  to  her  own  tongue 
in  the  crisis.  Could  he  wait  ?  It  would  not  take 
long.  But  this  time  Tetrault's  straining  ears  could 
catch  no  answer.  "  Dear,"  she  repeated,  "  can  you 
wait?"  The  wretchedness  of  the  tones,  the  terrible 
fear  shivering  behind  them  —  Tetrault  covered  his  face 
with  his  hand.  He  had  better  have  let  her  go  about 
ruining  her  life  in  her  own  way.  He  could  hear  her 
groping  up  to  the  level  again,  hurriedly,  giving  a  des 
perate  low  cry  when  she  slipped  back.  He  drew  away 
under  the  stunted  apple  tree,  against  the  trunk.  Then 
she  pushed  out  from  among  the  bushes  and  passed 
him,  not  two  yards  away.  He  saw  that  her  shawl  was 
gone. 

He  followed  her  as  he  had  followed  Harnett,  at  a 
distance,  but  much  faster.  She  was  running.  She 
sped  down  between  the  willows  so  quickly  that  once 
or  twice  he  lost  sight  of  her.  When  she  came  to 


ANNE  CARMEL  63 

Coppee's  cottage  she  beat  on  a  shutter  with  both  her 
fists.  The  shutter  was  banged  open,  and  she  spoke 
to  Coppee  and  his  wife,  urging  something  with  en 
treaties.  They  demurred,  stupid  and  half  asleep  and 
dazed.  The  shutter  closed  again,  and  Anne  moved 
off,  walking  up  and  down,  beating  her  palms  together. 
"Make  haste,"  she  called,  "oh  !  make  haste,  Monsieur 
Coppee."  The  door  of  the  cottage  was  unbarred,  and 
Coppee  and  his  wife  came  hurrying  out. 

Tetrault,  hiding  among  the  willows,  saw  them  follow 
Anne  up  the  lane,  and  after  a  long  time  he  saw  them 
coming  back.  They  passed  him  close.  They  were 
carrying  a  body  between  them.  And  Anne  walked 
in  front,  slowly,  holding  up  Coppee's  lantern,  light 
ing  the  dark  lane. 


CHAPTER  VI 

You  may  not  guess  anything  of  the  nature  of  a  man 
from  his  rejoicing  in  the  sunlight.  The  birds  of  the  air, 
the  four-footed  beasts,  and  the  lout  do  as  much.  But 
when  he  looks  into  the  black  of  the  coming  storm  and 
rejoices,  you  may  know  more.  There  is  a  deep,  then, 
answering  to  a  deep,  a  force  that  calls  to  another  force. 

Jean  Carmel,  walking  back  the  five  and  twenty  miles 
from  the  railroad,  reached  the  top  of  a  high  hill,  half 
a  league  from  St.  Hilaire,  and  stopped  there.  He 
could  see  far  away  in  the  cleared  atmosphere  that 
comes  sometimes  before  an  autumn  tempest.  The 
forest  was  all  around  him,  and  a  great  stillness  and 
loneliness.  But  there  was  a  space  through  the  trees 
just  in  front  of  him.  It  was  where  a  big  fir  had 
been  struck  down,  not  long  before,  by  wind  or  light 
ning,  and,  falling,  had  crashed  others  under  it.  The 
wood  was  white  and  fresh  and  resinous  yet  where 
the  trunk  and  the  branches  had  splintered. 

Through  the  gap  the  Cur6  looked  away  to  other  hills, 
showing  —  where  the  sun's  rays  cut  through  and  passed 
—  every  rock  and  stump  and  bush,  distinct  in  an 

64 


ANNE  CARMEL  65 

ash-green  glare.  And  behind  them  was  a  sky  of 
dark  portent,  with  drifting  clouds  of  metallic  white 
ness  moving  slowly  across  it  in  the  breath  of  the  near- 
ing  storm.  Every  pine  and  fir  on  the  ridges  stood  out 
plainly.  The  soil  looked  brick-pink. 

He  took  off  his  beaver  and  tossed  it  back  of  him,  on 
the  softness  of  the  vines  and  pine  drift  and  dead  leaves. 
He  shook  his  head  freely  and  stood  with  it  well 
up.  His  nostrils  widened.  A  line  out  of  the  varied 
reading  of  his  boyhood  came  to  him,  and  he  said  it 
aloud :  — 

Et  lui,  I'insens^  invoquait  la  tempete, 
Comme  si  dans  1'orage  pouvait  regner  la  paix. 

The  words  went  well  with  the  threatening  moan  of 
the  wind  behind  the  blue-gray,  solid  clouds.  It  was  a 
good  sound  that,  recalling  that  there  was  even  yet  a 
Jehovah  of  Destruction,  a  Lord  God  of  the  Thunders 
with  the  gales  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  as  well  as 
the  All  Merciful  who  comforts  the  sad-hearted,  and 
He  who,  being  omniscient,  forgives. 

There  was  a  long  moment  of  the  silence  of  the  depths 
of  space.  Not  one  thing  moved  except  the  cold  white 
clouds  drifting  against  the  wide-stretching  dark  ones. 
The  stillness  was  intense.  Then  there  was  a  deep 
breathing  of  wind  as  it  passed  through  the  high  tops 
of  the  trees  and  bent  them  over  and  tossed  them  back. 
The  living  leaves  on  the  ground  vines  stirred.  The 


66  ANNE  CAEMEL 

tempest  he  had  invoked  was  coming  from  above,  and  one 
of  which  he  had  no  expectation  from  below.  He  had 
written  that  he  would  be  back  at  St.  Hilaire  that  day, 
and  would  walk.  And  Anne  had  come  out  to  meet 
him.  She  was  climbing  the  hill,  as  he  stood  on  the 
crest  of  it,  making  her  way  through  a  woodman's  path, 
where  the  gloom  was  deep  and  the  branches  had  to  be 
pushed  aside,  avoiding  the  road,  which  had  its  occa 
sional  passenger. 

He  heard  a  cracking  of  the  underbrush  which  was 
not  from  the  wind,  and  he  turned  about.  His  face 
lighted,  and  he  went  toward  her  with  both  hands  out. 
"  Eh  bien,  La  P'tite  Chose,"  he  said.  It  was  the  name 
he  had  had  for  her  from  her  babyhood  when  he,  as  the 
twelve-year-older  brother,  had  felt  himself  her  bounden 
protector  —  a  role  which  had  given  him  enough  to  do, 
for,  from  her  toddling  days,  she  had  had  always  the  fac 
ulty  of  walking  determinedly,  and  with  open  eyes, 
into  trouble. 

But  Anne's  face  did  not  light,  and  she  drew  her 
hands  away  at  once.  He  saw  that  there  was  a  curious 
look  in  her  eyes,  which  was  meant  to  be  unabashed 
and  steady,  but  was  not  convincing  and  only  rather 
bold  —  the  sort  of  look  he  had  seen  sometimes  in  the 
oyes  of  another  kind  of  woman.  And  her  face  was  hag 
gard.  He  saw  it,  but  he  did  not  intend  to  question 
her.  The  basis  of  their  friendship  was  a  large  amount 
of  reserve  and  non-interference.  The  forcing  of  con- 


ANNE  CAEMEL  67 

fidences  was  something  neither  of  them  ever  attempted. 
And  he  did  not  attempt  it  now,  though  he  knew  there 
was  trouble.  But,  in  her  black  dress,  with  her  old  hat 
of  crushed  and  weather-stained  yellow  roses,  she  was  in 
place  in  the  shadows  of  the  forest  depth  and  of  the 
coming  storm.  He  realized  it  as  one  realizes  external 
things  in  the  dead  pause  of  a  suspense.  Then  he  looked 
off  to  the  tops  of  the  far  ridges,  dark  beneath  the  low 
clouds.  The  trees  were  threshing  in  a  pouring  wind. 

*'  We  must  go  home,"  he  said ;  "  we  will  be  caught  in 
the  rain,  as  it  is,"  and  he  started  for  his  hat  where  it 
lay  on  the  ground.  Anne  stopped  him.  Her  voice 
was  lower  than  ever,  more  deep,  more  vibrant  with  the 
tenseness  of  a  strain.  But  he  heard  it  with  a  sudden 
distinctness  under  the  roar  of  the  wind. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  have  something  to  tell  you  —  be 
fore  you  hear  it,"  she  motioned  her  head  toward  the 
village  and  her  full  upper  lip  shortened  with  contempt, 
"down  there."  She  had  never  been  contemptuous  of 
the  village  before.  He  did  not  like  the  sign. 

There  is  no  calling  which  impresses  its  characteristics 
upon  a  man  —  even  one  to  whose  nature  they  are  in 
themselves  foreign  —  so  deeply,  so  ineradicably,  as  that 
of  the  church.  That  of  arms  presses  it  close,  perhaps, 
but  there  can  be  soldiers  of  long  service  who  remain 
essentially  unmilitary.  There  can  never  be  a  priest 
whose  outward  seeming  does  not  subtly  bespeak  the 
cleric,  —  the  movements,  the  voice,  and  the  manner. 


68  ANNE  CARMEL 

And  it  is  not  only  those;  the  very  instincts  and 
thoughts  are  altered  by  the  tremendous  moral  pressure 
of  his  creed,  till  a  weak  man  becomes  mildly  feeble, 
but  a  strong  man  becomes  self-contained,  and  has 
learned  that  violence  can  never  be  other  than  dissi 
pated  force.  And  it  was  because  Jean  Carmel  was 
a  strong  man  that  he  heard  Anne  through  quietly, 
without  an  interruption. 

She  had  seated  herself  on  the  fallen  fir,  and  he  stood 
in  front  of  her,  his  rusty  cassock  whipping  about  his 
powerful,  lean  figure.  His  face  had  grayed,  and  his 
eyes  were  steady  and  cold ;  but  that  was  all.  She  told 
the  story  baldly,  almost  without  detail,  and  with  no 
attempt  at  extenuation  of  any  of  her  actions,  from 
the  night  when  Harnett  had  come  to  the  presbytere 
for  the  first  time,  to  the  evening  when  she  had  walked 
deliberately  past  her  protesting  mother,  out  of  the 
house ;  had  gone,  in  the  face  of  the  peering  village, 
up  the  main  street  to  the  inn,  and  to  Harnett's  room, 
and  had  got,  before  she  left  there,  his  promise  to 
leave  St.  Hilaire  on  the  following  day. 

"  I  wanted  him  to  be  gone  before  you  came,"  she 
ended,  "and  in  the  morning  he  was  well  enough  to 
be  helped  out  to  the  malle  and  drive  to  the  railroad. 
That  was  three  days  ago.  When  he  is  ready  to  have 
me,  I  will  follow  him." 

*'  Will  he  marry  you  ? "  her  brother  asked.  His 
voice  was  hard  and  even. 


ANNE  CARMEL  69 

Anne  met  his  eyes  as  she  had  met  the  half-tearful  and 
imploring  ones  of  young  Tetrault  a  week  before,  and 
her  face  was  as  white  as  it  had  been  then.  "It  is  I 
who  will  not  marry  Am,"  she  said.  It  was  quiet  and 
it  was  not  defiant,  but  it  had  all  of  her  will  behind  it 
—  a  will  that  even  Jean  had  never  made  anything 
by  trying  to  oppose.  He  did  not  speak  at  once.  He 
turned  into  the  road  and  walked  back  and  forth  sev 
eral  times.  Anne  broke  off  a  branch  of  a  red-berried 
mountain  ash  before  her  and  brushed  the  needles 
from  the  fir-trunk  with  it  carefully.  Jean  came  back 
and  stopped  in  front  of  her  again. 

" You  will  not  marry  him"  —  he  repeated  it,  —  " will 
you  tell  me  why  ?  "  And  he  stood  as  still  as  before, 
listening,  with  what  might  have  seemed  patience,  to 
what  he  knew  very  well  were  Harnett's  specious  pre 
texts,  elaborated  by  Anne's  faith  and  sympathy  into  a 
defence,  —  the  defence  of  a  man  whose  despicableness 
was  patent  and  passing  all  comprehension,  who  was 
ready  to  take  advantage  of  a  woman's  generosity  and 
devotion  to  let  her  make  the  sacrifice  of  everything 
for  his  gratification,  who  would  not  give  even  his 
own  temporary  ease  in  exchange.  And  worse  yet, 
a  man  who  meanly  lied,  and  whined  that  he  was 
not  his  own  master.  Jean  Carmel  had  his  opinion 
of  an  able-bodied  man  who  could  not  be  his  own 
master,  his  own  breadwinner,  and  it  was  untempered 
in  its  severity  by  any  traditions  of  an  older  land  and 


70  ANNE  CARMEL 

civilization.  He  was  himself  the  son  of  nine  genera 
tions  of  men  who  had  made  their  own  way  in  the 
wilderness  and  in  the  face  of  every  odds.  A  man 
who  could  forswear  his  manhood  to  keep  his  comfort 
and  station  and  friends,  even  his  home  —  Jean  Carmel 
had  large  toleration  by  nature  and  by  reason  of  a 
priest's  much  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  but  his 
charity  did  not  extend  to  this. 

"  You  must  try  to  see  it  as  he  sees  it,  Jean,"  Anne 
urged  on  him.  "Position  and  wealth  and  ambition 
mean  so  much  more  to  him  than  they  possibly  can  to 
us.  We  have  never  had  them,  nor  any  hope  of  them. 
We  cannot  judge."  But  Jean  Carmel  did  judge.  "If 
I  were  to  marry  him,  I  would  be  ruining  his  life,"  said 
Anne. 

"  And  you  prefer  to  ruin  your  own  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  conclusively.  She  was  twirling 
the  branch  of  mountain  ash  and  watching  it.  Then  she 
looked  up. 

"But  it  seems  to  me  that  a  life  like  yours  is  the 
ruined  one,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  and  her  eyes  went 
over  the  cassock.  "I  hope  you  will  never  know  how 
ruined."  And  he  saw  behind  her  face  the  full  force 
of  the  passion  with  which  he  had  to  deal.  He  passed 
his  hand  across  his  forehead. 

The  wind  gave  a  long  moan  through  the  trees  and 
beat  even  the  undergrowth  down.  A  big  drop  fell 
on  his  face.  He  looked  up  beyond  the  tree-tops,  far 


ANNE  CARMEL  71 

above,  where  he  could  see  a  little  of  the  sky.  It  was 
almost  black.  Out  through  the  opening  where  the 
fir  had  fallen,  the  other  hills  were  no  longer  visi 
ble.  There  was  a  sheet  of  swishing  rain  between,  and 
surging  toward  him.  He  turned  away  deliberately 
and  went  to  where  his  hat  lay,  took  it  up,  and  put  it 
under  a  jut  of  lichened  rock.  Then  he  went  back 
and  laid  his  hand  on  Anne's  shoulder,  and  drew  her 
away  under  a  big  pine.  The  rain  would  not  come 
there  for  some  time  yet,  if  at  all,  and  the  drifting  of 
needles  and  leaves  and  crumbled  cones  was  quite  dry. 

The  branches  were  too  low  for  them  to  stand.  Anne 
sat  staring  out  at  the  lashing  rain.  In  the  gloom  her 
face  showed  vague  and  luminous-eyed,  and  very  white 
under  its  crushed  yellow  crown.  She  did  not  look 
uneasily  bold  now,  only  tired  and  broken. 

"Where  has  he  gone  —  Harnett?"  asked  Jean.  She 
had  taken  good  care  to  avoid  the  use  of  any  but  the 
surname. 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "I  will  not  tell  you,"  she 
said.  He  knew  that  she  would  not. 

"  Nor  in  what  part  of  England  his  home  is,  I  suppose?" 

"Nor  where  his  home  is,"  said  Anne.  Canada  and 
England  were  wide  for  a  village  priest  of  small  means. 
It  would  not  be  easy  to  find  a  man  of  whom  he  knew 
no  more  than  that  he  was  called  Harnett.  And  Anne 
had  thought  of  all  those  things,  and  more,  in  the  week 
past. 


72  ANNE  CAEMEL 

Did  she  know  who  he  was,  this  improbable  uncle 
who  seemed  the  arbiter  of  the  destinies  of  a  grown 
man  ?  he  inquired.  It  was  a  shaft  he  could  not  resist. 

"  Yes,"  she  told  him,  unaffected.  "  I  know  that,  and 
I  know  where  he  lives.  He  is  not  improbable." 

"Between  him  and  yourself,  at  any  rate,"  he  sug 
gested,  "  this  Harnett  appears  to  be  a  good  deal  of  a 
shuttlecock."  A  dull  anger  was  flushing  over  Anne's 
face.  She  was  not  often  angry  —  only  once  or  twice 
that  he  could  recall  —  but  it  was  a  hard  and  enduring 
temper,  unpleasant  to  rouse.  And  it  was  not  worth 
while  rousing  it  for  the  poor  satisfaction  of  having  his 
say  about  the  man.  It  would  lose  him  any  little  in 
fluence  he  might  still  be  able  to  exert  —  the  only  influ 
ence  which  would  have  the  smallest  effect.  Madame 
Carmel's  could  do  nothing  but  harm.  She  and  Anne 
had  small  admiration  for  one  another's  characteristics, 
and  no  traits  whatever  in  common. 

Madame  Carmel  was  of  those  who,  given  several 
probable  motives,  always  ascribe  the  least  creditable. 
That  it  could  be  possible  for  an  evil  course  of  action 
to  start  from  good  but  misguided  impulses,  from 
generosity  and  loyalty,  courage  and  devotion,  would 
be  entirely  beyond  her  comprehension.  "  She  thinks 
all  my  mind  must  be  unclean,"  Anne  had  bitterly 
put  it.  He  could  entirely  believe  it.  And  she 
had  blundered  inexcusably.  She  had  watched  Anne. 
"At  night,"  had  explained  his  sister.  "  She  thought, 


ANNE   CARMEL  73 

I  suppose,  that  I  would  be  afraid  of  the  dark." 
To  have  watched  Anne !  Any  one  knowing  her  in  the 
least  might  have  known  better  than  to  do  that. 
From  the  time  that  she,  as  a  small  child,  had  first 
been  able  to  act  on  her  own  initiative,  there  had  been 
no  way  to  manage  her  save  only  to  put  her  upon  her 
honor.  But  it  was  a  lesson  her  mother  had  never 
seemed  to  learn,  and  a  steady  antagonism  had  resulted. 

However,  he  had  Anne's  word  for  it  that  there 
had  been,  so  far,  no  worse  than  the  two  night  meetings, 
and  those  appearances  of  evil  which  Harnett  had 
encouraged  and  she  herself  had  taken  not  the  least 
care  to  avoid.  And  Harnett,  moreover,  had  gone 
away.  The  chances  of  its  being  the  last  that  Anne 
would  ever  hear  of  him  were,  Jean  Carmel  figured 
it,  rather  better  than  good.  The  gallantries  of  his 
wanderings  in  remote  and  uncivilized  spots,  Harnett 
very  probably  did  not  make  a  habit  of  carrying  on 
into  his  conventional  life.  And  that  he  loved  Anne 
did  not  even  suggest  itself  to  the  Cure".  His  own 
conception  of  love  did  not  admit  the  possibility  of 
harming  the  beloved,  of  belittling  her  or  letting 
her  suffer  in  any  way.  As  he  could  understand  it, 
its  first  principle  must  be  a  desire  to  protect. 

So  he  saw  room  for  hoping  a  good  end.  But  no 
good  end  was  to  be  reached  by  annoying  Anne,  stir 
ring  up  her  long  anger.  In  that  event  she  would  be 
entirely  capable  of  leaving  St.  Hilaire  altogether. 


74  ANNE   CARMEL 

Anne  had  picked  up  a  pine  cone  and  was  crum 
bling  it  in  her  fingers.  A  drop  of  rain  came  through 
the  thick  mass  of  pine  and  fell  on  her  hand.  She 
brushed  it  away  and  shifted  her  position.  She  looked 
sullen  and  at  bay.  The  storm  was  at  its  full  force, 
the  wind  surged  and  roared,  the  trees  were  creaking 
and  muttering,  the  lighter  ones,  the  birch  and  maple 
and  ash,  whipped,  and  the  loose  leaves  on  the  vines 
clung  and  shivered.  A  chipmunk  passed  in  a  red- 
brown  whisk  across  the  road  and  scurried  up  a 
trunk.  There  was  a  good  fresh  smell  of  wet  earth 
and  mould,  and  of  balsams  and  cedar. 

He  changed  his  sarcasm  to  a  tone  of  quiet,  dispas 
sionate  reasoning,  and  tried  to  make  her  see  it  all 
as  he  saw  it,  as  any  one  but  herself  inevitably  must. 
But  it  made  no  impression. 

Harnett  was  not  the  one  to  be  blamed,  she  kept  to 
it ;  only  herself.  "  I  could  say  to  him  that  he  must 
give  up  fortune  and  success  and  friends  and  his  home 
and  everything  for  which  he  had  ever  cared.  I  could 
tell  him  that  he  was  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  life 
poor  and  hard  at  work  and  hopeless  ;  and  in  exchange 
for  all  that  I  could  offer  him  a  love  too-  selfish  to 
make  any  sacrifice  of  its  own.  He  would  do  it, 
yes,  but,  Jean,  he  would,"  she  insisted,  losing 
patience,  "I  tell  you  he  would  be  only  too  glad  to. 
But  —  do  you  yourself  think  that  such  a  bargaining 
sort  of  love  would  be  worth  the  sacrifice  ?  " 


ANNE  CAKMEL  75 

"  Though  he  lost  all,"  he  reminded  her,  "  yet  would 
he  gain  his  own  soul.  And  the  fortune  and  ambition 
and  friends  for  which  a  man  must  sell  his  right  to 
his  own  judgment  and  conscience  and  instincts  — 
they  are  worse  than  not  worth  having.  They  are  his 
destruction — and  so,"  he  added  unhesitatingly,  "so  is 
the  woman  who  helps  him  to  sin  to  keep  them." 

Anne  did  not  answer.  She  put  up  her  arms,  clasped 
her  hands  behind  her  head  and  looked  out  at  the 
driving  sheets  of  rain  and  the  darkening  afternoon. 

How  much  of  all  this,  he  asked  her  presently,  had  she 
told  her  mother.  "  Nothing,"  she  said  shortly.  "  Any 
thing  that  she  knows  she  has  found  out  from  others 
—  from  anybody  in  the  parish  who  wanted  to  carry 
tales,  I  expect."  He  could  see  that  the  antagonism  was 
stronger  than  ever.  It  was  unfortunate.  "No,"  she 
said,  "  she  may  think  what  she  pleases  —  and  of  course 
it  will  be  the  worst." 

She  was  stubborn  and  she  was  not  repentant,  but,  at 
any  rate  there  was  nothing  abject  about  her,  and  reso 
lute  wrong-doing  could  have  a  dignity  of  its  own,  the 
dignity  of  strength,  whether  directed  ill  or  well.  He 
could  not  help  an  admiration  of  a  sort.  It  was 
with  some  natures  as  with  some  big  trees,  not  until 
they  had  fallen  did  you  realize  their  full  proportions. 

She  turned  and  faced  him  abruptly,  brushing  the 
crumbled  cones  from  her  dress  with  a  sweep  of  her 
hands.  "  I  can  go  away,  if  you  think  I  should,"  she 


76  ANNE  CAKMEL 

offered.  "  I  have  thought  it  all  over.  I  can  work  some 
where,  at  something,  until  he  is  ready  to  have  me  with 
him.  And  I  am  not  the  sort  of  a  woman  to  be  in  a 
presbytere.  I  know  that  well  enough.  It  isn't  as  if  I 
were  repentant  —  then  perhaps  it  would  be  your  duty 
to  take  me  back.  But  I  am  not  corry,"  she  was  speak 
ing  quickly,  trying  to  make  it  even  and  indifferent.  "  I 
would  have  gone  before,  only  I  wanted  you  to  know 
that  I  am  not  altogether  bad.  I  knew,  of  course,  that 
you  would  never  think  as  mother  does,"  her  lips 
thinned  with  annoyance,  "  and  that  you  would  not  even 
pity  me  in  the  contemptuous  way  the  others  do.  But  I 
wanted  you  to  understand.  What  the  rest  think  doesn't 
matter."  It  had  always  mattered  so  little  to  Anne  what 
the  "rest"  should  elect  to  think.  "And  now  that 
you  know,"  she  finished,  "  I  will  go  away  if  I  had 
better.  You  are  a  cure,  and  I  am  not  the  sort  of 
woman  for  your  home.  I  will  understand." 

But  the  corners  of  her  mouth  quivered  in  spite  of 
herself,  and  her  hands  were  pressed  together  to  keep 
them  still.  Her  eyes  had  dropped.  He  sat  and  looked 
at  her  until  she  had  to  raise  them.  His  face  was  stern. 
"Anne,"  he  told  her  then,  "you  have  said  a  great 
many  things  that  have  hurt  me  to-day,  but  none 
so  much  as  this." 

An  end  of  the  old,  travel-worn,  earth-stained  cassock 
was  close  to  her.  She  put  out  her  fingers  and  touched 
it,  stroking  it  softly. 


"  'Anne,'  he  told  her  then,   'you  have  said  a  great  many  things  that 
have  hurt  me  to-day  —  but  none  so  much  as  this.'" 


ANNE   CARMEL  77 

After  a  while  she  clasped  her  hands  in  her  lap  again 
and  sat  still.  Her  eyes,  shining  in  the  twilight,  were 
not  seeing  the  rain.  She  was  not  hearing  the  swish 
of  the  water  as  it  came  through  the  trees  and  on  to 
the  road,  soaking  into  the  brown  drift  and  mould  and 
beating  the  ferns  to  the  earth.  She  began  to  rock 
herself  back  and  forth,  slowly.  Her  head  drooped. 
The  warm,  brown  hair  had  fallen  loose  and  was  curl 
ing  from  the  knot  in  little  damp  tendrils.  He  reached 
out  and  touched  it,  and  a  tendril  wound  itself  around 
one  of  his  fingers.  Would  he  have  been  more  severe 
if  she  had  been  less  beautiful  —  or  more  self-abasing? 

She  flung  back  her  head  suddenly  and  looked  at 
him.  "Jean,  if  he  should  never  send  for  me,  if  he 
should  change  his  mind,  or  forget  me,  or  come  to 
think  me  like  any  other  woman  who  is  only  —  bad  —  " 
she  caught  her  breath  hard  and  sat  very  still  for  a 
long  moment.  Then  she  threw  herself  down  on  the 
brown  pine  drift,  with  her  head  on  her  arms.  The 
branches  of  the  dark  trees  were  beating  about,  and 
the  rain  poured  down  with  an  even,  low  roar,  drip 
ping  steadily  now,  through  the  great  pine,  upon  them 
both,  —  the  priest  in  his  black  robe,  and  Anne  huddled 
on  the  ground,  face  downward,  a  crown  of  crushed 
and  stained  yellow  flowers  upon  her  bowed  head. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DOUBTLESS  it  is  because  we  grow  tired  of  accept 
ing  ourselves  as  a  little  lower  than  the  angels  that 
we  derive  satisfaction  from  being  able  occasionally  to 
consider  ourselves  as  a  little  higher  than  the  fallen 
Lucifer.  We  feel  pleasure,  not  exactly  in  another's 
abasement,  perhaps,  but  in  our  elevation  by  contrast 
therewith. 

And  by  contrast  with  the  Cure's  sister  the  parish 
ioners  felt  themselves  good.  That,  together  with  the 
occupation  of  watching  her  and  discussing  her,  gave 
their  lives  a  more  than  common  interest.  The  Curd 
permitted  not  the  most  distant  reference  to  the  matter, 
and  Madame  Carmel  had  ceased  encouraging  the 
topic ;  but  Amelie  Latouche  kept  her  friends  informed 
of  Anne's  least  significant  word  and  act,  or  such  as 
she  chose  to  consider  significant.  And  the  fact  that 
the  postmistress  was  true  to  the  responsibilities  of 
her  office,  and  discussed  nothing  whatever  connected 
with  it,  did  not  keep  it  from  getting  around  that 
Anne  was  receiving  letters  from  the  Englishman  and 
sending  others  to  him.  And  it  was  Anne's  fault. 

78 


ANNE   CAEMEL  79 

She  had  gone  to  the  little  post-office  room  the  day 
after  Harnett  had  left  the  village.  There  were  two 
women  by  the  counter,  who  spoke  to  her  with  obvious 
uncertainty  as  to  the  effect  it  might  have  on  their 
own  reputation.  Anne  met  their  uncomfortable  eyes 
somewhat  arrogantly  and  answered.  Then,  with 
entire  indifference  to  their  presence,  gave  orders  to 
the  postmistress  that  any  letters  which  might  thence 
forth  come  for  herself  were  to  be  kept  at  the  office 
and  not  sent  to  the  presbytere. 

Some  ten  days  afterward  a  letter  came,  and  Madame 
Tetrault  was  in  the  office  when  Anne  got  it.  Madame 
Tetrault  had  not  spoken  to  her  at  all,  and  had  become 
entirely  absorbed  in  an  English  Life  Insurance  Com 
pany's  calendar  on  the  wall,  —  the  which  she  could 
not  read.  But  as  Anne  passed  the  window  on  the 
porch  outside,  the  sharp  little  eyes,  made  keen  by 
malice,  observed  enough  to  justify  the  inference  that 
the  letter  was  not  an  ordinary  one. 

"  It  was  from  her  lover  ? "  she  inquired  of  the 
postmistress.  The  postmistress  did  not  know.  But 
Madame  Tetrault  was  in  no  wise  baffled. 

"  You  know  where  it  was  from,"  she  insisted. 

The  postmistress  had  not  tried  to  decipher  the 
postmark,  and  she  said  so  as  she  took  out  the  Cure's 
mail  from  its  pigeonhole  and  laid  it  ready  for  the 
sexton,  who  was  coming  across  the  street.  Madame 
Tetrault  treated  that  with  the  incredulity  she  hon- 


80  ANNE  CARMEL 

estly  thought  it  deserved.  But  she  went  and  called 
on  several  wives,  and  gave  her  surmises  for  facts. 

Anne  took  her  letter  and  went  through  the  gate 
of  Coppee's  lane,  past  the  shed  from  which  the  dry 
ing  tobacco  leaves  sent  out  their  pungent  odor,  and 
up  between  the  willows.  They  were  yellowing  and 
thinning.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  come  this 
way  since  the  night  when  she  had  gone  to  meet  Har- 
nett.  And  she  hurried  now  as  she  had  hurried  then. 
Only  then  it  had  been  because  she  was  afraid  of  the 
darkness,  and  now  it  was  because  she  was  afraid  of 
the  letter.  "If  he  should  not  send  for  me,  if  he 
should  change  his  mind,  or  forget  me  — "  she  had 
said  to  Jean.  And  it  was  the  dread  that  was  always 
underneath,  with  Jean's  unbelief  to  foster  it.  It  was 
because  of  it  that  she  had  brought  the  letter  out  to 
the  quarry.  If  her  dread  were  to  be  justified,  no  one 
should  see  her  at  first. 

She  went  through  the  broken-barred  gate  and  over 
to  where  the  sumachs  and  crab-apples  grew  around 
the  deep  hole.  There  was  nothing  alive  in  sight 
except  a  mare  and  a  colt  in  the  pasture,  and  a  blue 
bird  among  the  bushes.  It  startled  her  as  it  flew 
out,  almost  across  her  face.  Her  nerves  were  at  the 
snapping  tension.  She  climbed  down  into  a  hollow 
where  a  big  block  of  stone  had  been  taken  out  long 
enough  before  for  the  earth  to  have  gathered  again, 
and  weeds  and  sumachs  to  have  grown.  And  she 


ANNE  CAEMEL  81 

sat  there,   entirely  hidden    even    from    any  one   who 
might   come   into  the   pasture,   and   read   the    letter. 

Harnett  was  in  Quebec,  and  he  had  neither  changed 
his  mind  nor  forgotten  her.  His  plans  were  what 
they  had  been  from  the  first,  as  Anne  had  helped  him 
to  make  them.  He  would  wait  in  Canada  through 
the  winter,  to  be  a  little  the  nearer  her.  Then,  when 
his  uncle  should  have  got  back  to  London,  he  would 
go  on  himself  and  ask  the  permission  to  marry  her  — 
it  might  be  in  six  months  or  perhaps  more.  If  the 
permission  were  refused,  the  final  decision  would 
then  remain  with  her.  And  Anne  saw  no  avoidance 
of  direct  issues  in  the  wording,  which  was  carefully 
noncommittal.  She  was  satisfied,  more  than  satisfied. 
She  sat  for  a  long  time  with  the  letter  in  one  hand 
and  her  chin  in  the  palm  of  the  other,  bent  for 
ward.  Then,  after  a  while,  she  stood  up  and  clam 
bered  farther  down,  into  the  bottom  of  the  quarry. 
She  went  to  the  spot  where  Harnett  had  fallen  and 
lain.  There  was  no  mark  of  the  fall,  no  torn  ground, 
no  blood  on  the  stones  or  weeds,  though  his  head 
had  bled  so  that  it  had  soaked  the  shawl  she  had 
rolled  under  it  when  she  had  left  him  to  go  for 
Coppee.  Where  the  sumach  branches  had  cracked 
under  the  crashing  weight  was  almost  hidden  in  the 
mass  of  gorgeous  leaves. 

Nature  does  not  love  the  past.      She  builds  upon  it 
and  covers  it  up,  absorbing  it  into  always  renewing  life. 


82  ANNE   CAEMEL 

It  is  only  man  who  lots  off  as  sacred  ground  the  spot  of 
a  tragedy  and  commemorates  it,  who  marks  the  lying- 
places  of  dead  bodies.  Nature  obliterates  quickly 
the  traces  of  the  struggles  for  life  and  death,  and 
the  uncounted  numbers  of  her  dead,  little  and  great, 
leave  no  token.  The  pathway  of  man  is  marked 
with  the  mound  and  the  cairn  and  the  headstone  ; 
there  is  rarely  a  bone  by  the  trail  of  the  wild  thing, 
rarely  the  tiny,  fine,  ant-swarming  skeleton  of  a  bird 
beneath  the  tree  where  thousands  have  sung.  The 
dead  of  Nature  buries  her  dead,  and  life  comes  forth  — 
a  better  sign  of  Faith  and  of  Hope  than  man  can  show, 
and  a  better  Charity. 

Little  in  the  quarry  indicated  the  short  human 
struggle  of  a  few  days  past,  as  nothing  in  the  woods 
beyond  the  farm  clearings  gave  token  of  the  slaughter 
of  their  moose  herds  a  quarter  of  a  century  before, 
when  the  place  had  been  well  named  Hormah  for  its 
utter  destruction,  and  the  air  of  the  mountains  had 
been  turned  fetid  until  the  hundreds  upon  hundreds 
of  bodies — hide-stripped  for  the  covering  of  an  army's 
feet  —  had  gone  back  to  the  soil  which  was  even  then 
coming  with  swift  certainty  under  the  dominion  of 
man. 

Anne  took  up  a  dry  branch  and  measured  with  it 
the  depth  of  the  big  rain-pool.  It  was  more  than 
two  feet,  and  large  enough  to  have  covered  a  man's 
whole  body  easily.  It  looked  dark  in  the  shadow 


ANNE  CAEMBL  83 

of  the  thick  bushes,  and  it  was  coated  with  green 
scum.  Harnett  had  fallen  close  beside  it.  Half  a 
yard  farther,  and  not  until  the  summer  should  have 
dried  down  the  pool,  would  any  one  have  known 
what  had  become  of  the  English  hunter  who  had 
camped  across  the  river  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  and 
who  had  been  seen  so  often  with  Mademoiselle  Car- 
mel.  No  one  would  have  known  —  except  he  who 
had  thrown  the  stone.  And  Anne  had  found  out 
that  it  was  Paul  Tetrault. 

He  braved  the  taunts  and  wrath  of  his  mother, 
and  refused  persistently  either  to  pay  court  to  the 
daughter  of  Lavisse,  or  to  ignore  Anne  Carmel.  He 
went  to  the  presbytere  occasionally,  just  as  he  had 
always  done,  and  spoke  to  Anne  openly  and  before 
all  the  assembled  parish,  after  mass.  It  was  after 
a  mass,  when  they  stood  on  the  wide  steps  of  the 
church,  —  left  well  to  themselves  by  the  other  covertly 
eyeing  groups  —  that  Anne  had  asked  him  composedly 
why  he  had  tried  to  kill  Harnett.  He  made  shift 
to  deny  it.  He  had  not  tried  to  kill  Harnett  —  what 
did  she  mean  ?  But  the  color  was  all  out  of  his  bright 
cheeks.  "  I  mean,"  said  Anne,  "  that  I  am  quite  sure 
it  was  you  who  threw  the  stone." 

He  kept  on  trying  to  insist  the  contrary,  but  in 
the  end  he  admitted  it.  "  It  was  to  save  you,  Anne. 
But  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing.  It  was  to 
save  you  —  you  won't  tell  ?  "  Some  of  the  terror  of 


84  ANNE  CAEMEL 

the  night,  when  he  had  grovelled  under  the  wall 
and  thought  of  the  body  down  in  the  bottom  of  the 
old  quarry,  showed  in  his  eyes.  She  looked  at  him 
speculatively.  He  was  a  poor  sort  of  man,  with  his 
kinking  light  hair  and  plump  pink  cheeks,  and  his 
little  courage  which  was  not  ready  to  take  the  con 
sequences  of  his  own  acts.  And  yet  —  he  had  the 
courage  to  be  the  only  one  in  the  parish  who  was 
not  decidedly  cautious  about  being  seen  near  her. 

"  No,"  she  had  said,  «  I  will  not  tell." 

She  went  back  to  the  presbytere.  The  Cure  was  in 
the  garden  with  the  bedeau  digging  up  the  bulbs  of 
the  dahlias.  Anne  stood  watching  them  until  the 
man  went  away  to  ring  the  noon  bells.  "  I  have  had  a 
letter,  Jean,"  she  said.  He  stood  with  his  clumsily 
booted  foot  on  the  spade,  and  waited. 

"  Yes  ?  "   he  said. 

"  Only  that  it  may  be  half  a  year  or  even  more 
before  I  go  away."  Time  was  what  he  reckoned  with. 
He  was  glad  to  hear  it. 

"Why?"  he  asked.  She  told  him.  He  allowed 
himself  no  comment.  "  Where  is  the  uncle  ? "  he 
wanted  to  know.  She  told  him.  He  was  travelling 
around  the  world.  "I  see,"  he  said,  and  went  on 
with  his  digging.  He  was  acquiring  something  like 
a  respect  for  Harnett's  inventive  powers. 

Afterward,  the  long  winter  that  followed  in  the 
presbytere  was  not  easy  for  Anne.  She  got  many 


ANNE   CARMEL  85 

blows,  but  they  were  never  of  those  scourges  we  braid 
ourselves  for  the  lashing  of  our  own  backs.  She  was 
not  troubling  herself  with  any  regrets,  and  her  brother 
could  not  bring  her  to  it.  He  tried  only  once,  and 
produced  no  effect.  He  abandoned  it  as  useless  for  a 
time  yet.  "Most  of  us,"  he  finished,  "think  at  the  time, 
that  we  do  well  to  sell  the  birthright  of  contentment 
for  the  red  pottage  of  a  short  felicity  —  and  it  is  not 
until  later  that  there  comes  the  bitter  cry." 

"  There  will  be  no  bitter  cry  from  me,"  Anne  told 
him.  "I  will  take  what  comes  without  complaining." 

"And  then  — "  she  leaned  forward  on  the  table  with 
her  long,  firm  hands  clasped  in  the  circle  of  the  lamp 
light,  and  followed  out  his  argument,  "and  then  — 
it  seems  to  me,  that  to  love  and  be  loved  is  the  birth 
right.  The  world  tries  to  buy  it  from  us  with  what  it 
calls  honor  and  a  good  name,  with  money  or  position  — 
but  it  is  our  birthright,  nevertheless."  She  decided  it 
to  her  own  satisfaction. 

"No,"  he  contradicted  her,  "  it  is  to  do  one's  duty  in 
that  state  of  life  to  which  one  has  been  called." 

She  shook  her  head. 

And  the  state  of  life  to  which  she  was  called  just 
then  was  not  pleasant  to  Anne.  The  attitude  of  the 
parishioners  —  condescension,  pity,  accentuated  kind 
ness,  or  holding  aloof,  according  to  their  stamp  of  mind 
—  was  only  one  degree  less  unendurable  than  that  of 
her  mother. 


86  ANNE  CARMEL 

Madame  Carmel's  every  look  and  word  was  a  re 
proach,  taking  that  form  most  trying  to  the  sinner's 
patience,  an  insistently  uncomplaining  martyrdom. 
It  was  against  that  that  Anne  made  her  one  protest, 
and  then  only  after  she  had  borne  it  most  of  the  winter. 

Madame  Carmel  had  gone  off  to  bed.  Anne  had 
watched  the  figure,  so  like  her  own  still,  until  the  door 
had  closed  behind  it.  She  spoke  then  through  shut 
teeth.  "  Jean,  I  shall  say  something  I  shall  be  sorry 
for  unless  she  changes  that  mournful  look  for  just  one 
hour."  He  attempted  a  defence,  but  she  put  it  off. 
"She  is  saddened,  yes,  of  course,  and  I  have  hurt 
her,  —  I  know  all  that.  She  takes  good  care  that  I 
shall.  She  wants  me  to  feel  how  unworthy  and  wicked 
I  am.  But  I  don't  —  and  that  is  certainly  not  the  way 
to  go  about  it."  Her  lip  curled.  She  was  getting  em 
bittered.  "  And  she  wears  that  mournful  smile  of 
forgiveness  whenever  I  come  in  sight,"  she  went  on 
angrily  ;  "  she  is  forever  kissing  me  and  taking  me  in 
her  arms.  I  don't  like  that.  I  never  did,  and  she 
knows  it.  I  may  be  a  miserable  sinner,  but  I'd  rather 
she'd  find  some  other  way  of  making  me  realize  it." 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  went  back  to  the  book 
which  was  open  in  front  of  her.  Then  she  glanced  up 
again.  "  There  are  so  many  fashions  of  saying  '  neither 
do  I  condemn  thee,'  and  most  of  them  are  more  humili 
ating  than  to  be  stoned." 

But   the   Cure   could  see  another  side  to  it.     His 


ANNE  CARMEL  87 

mother  was  brought  low  before  the  eyes  of  all  the  parish. 
And  she  was  a  proud  woman,  though  her  pride  might 
not  be  of  that  finer  temper  which  disdains  to  bid  for 
sympathy.  She  had  held  her  head  well  up  in  the 
village.  And  she  could  not  now,  when  it  was  a  charity 
of  any  journalier's  daughter  to  speak  to  her  own.  She 
had,  too,  a  dominating  nature,  the  which  Anne  had 
deliberately  put  aside  and  refused  to  submit  to.  Anne 
had  disobeyed  flagrantly  and  set  her  authority  entirely 
at  naught.  Madame  Carmel  had  not  heavy  and  meet 
ing  black  eyebrows  for  nothing,  and  she  was  enraged 
—  a  rage  that  took  the  form  of  a  fixed  smile  and 
caresses.  But  most  of  all  she  was  a  bigoted  woman 
in  her  religion,  and  it  was  really  a  terrible  thing  to 
her  that  her  daughter  neither  confessed  now,  nor  re 
ceived  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  To  have  an  outcast 
upon  earth  in  one's  family  was  bad  enough  —  but  an 
outcast  from  Heaven  as  well !  Heaven  and  Hell  were 
as  close  and  real  and  material  to  Madame  Carmel  as 
ever  they  were  to  the  Huron  missionaries.  To  be  in 
Heaven  oneself  and  have  one's  daughter  in  the  eternal 
abode  of  sinners  would  be,  on  an  intensified  scale, 
much  the  same  as  to  be  law-abiding  and  yet  have  a 
child  in  the  penitentiary.  Madame  saw  a  stigma  at 
taching  to  herself  hereafter  as  well  as  here,  in  conse 
quence  of  Anne's  refusal  to  partake  of  the  mysteries 
of  the  faith  on  the  insufficient  grounds  that  her  frame 
of  mind  was  not  fitting.  The  letter  and  not  the  spirit 


88  ANNE  CAKMEL 

was  the  weightier  matter  of  Madame  Carmel's  religious 
law,  precisely  as  it  was  that  of  those  Jesuit  fathers 
who  stopped  at  no  untruth  or  subterfuge  to  obtain 
the  one  drop  of  water  which  alone  would  render  the 
baptism  of  the  most  unbelieving  convert  efficacious. 

The  Cure"  was  not  so  intolerant  of  all  these  things 
as  was  Anne  ;  he  had  twelve  years  more  of  experi 
ence  in  life  than  she,  and  much  more  knowledge  than 
she  could  ever  have  of  the  human  soul,  which  had  been 
so  often  laid  bare  and  bleeding  before  him.  He  sym 
pathized  with  Anne  ;  the  force  of  her  objection  to 
the  persistent  smile  was  apparent  to  him.  But  he 
was  also  sorry  for  his  mother. 

The  mail  delivery  was  more  or  less  uncertain  at  St. 
Hilaire  in  the  best  of  seasons,  and  many  a  letter  disap 
peared  for  good  and  all  somewhere  along  its  route. 
But  in  winter  the  conditions  were  much  worse,  and  as 
a  result  there  was  an  interval  of  six  weeks,  toward  the 
close  of  the  winter,  during  which  Anne  did  not  hear 
from  Harnett.  The  Cure  guessed  it  from  the  hollow 
ing  of  her  eyes  and  other  signs,  which  escaped  Madame 
Carmel,  absorbed  in  her  own  misfortunes.  But  he  did 
not  question.  Then  the  letters  began  to  come  again, 
two  together,  the  first  more  than  a  month  old.  Anne 
did  her  work  about  the  house  and  the  church,  and 
helped  her  brother  with  his  duties  of  charity;  but  the 
rest  of  the  time  she  spent  in  her  own  cold  room,  read 
ing  and  rereading  the  letters  and  writing  answers  to 


ANNE   CAilMEL  89 

them.  Usually  she  locked  the  door.  But  once  she 
forgot  it,  and  Jean,  on  his  way  to  his  own  room,  stopped 
to  speak  to  her.  It  was  already  after  twelve  o'clock. 
He  had  been  out  through  the  miles  of  snow  to  see  Ma 
demoiselle  Lavisse,  who  was  dying  slowly,  for  all  that 
she  was  an  heiress,  because  her  father  did  not  recognize 
the  necessity  of  going  to  the  expense  of  sending  a  long 
distance  for  a  doctor.  The  Cure  opened  Anne's  door 
quietly.  She  was  sitting  up  in  her  bed,  a  patch  quilt 
wrapped  around  her.  There  were  loose  sheets  of  the 
letters  in  her  lap,  and  another  she  held  pressed  against 
her  cheek  with  both  hands.  The  light  from  the  can 
dle  glowed  red  through  her  hair.  Her  eyes  were 
shut  and  she  was  rocking  to  and  fro,  as  she  had  had  a 
way  of  doing  in  her  childhood,  when  she  was  either 
very  happy  or  very  miserable.  He  knew  that  she  was 
very  happy  now.  She  had  not  heard  the  door  open. 
He  moved  back  quietly  and  shut  it  and  left  her  alone. 
And  Anne  sat  holding  the  letters  much  farther  into 
the  night. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  Cure  came  out  in  front  of  the  presbytere.  It 
was  only  just  after  sunrise.  There  had  been  rain,  but 
it  had  stopped,  and  now  there  was  a  softly  blue  sky,  with 
flecking  gold  and  white  clouds,  mare's-tails  of  white, 
sun-tipped,  streaming  over  it,  streaks  of  faint  pink 
above  the  hills  to  the  north,  and  the  hills  themselves 
sun-crested,  with  sharp,  dark  shadows  in  their  ravines. 
The  tree-tops  were  gold-crested,  too,  and  the  smoke, 
pouring  up  from  the  village  chimneys,  vapory  mother- 
of-pearl,  yellow  and  rose  and  white.  Just  over  to  the 
right  of  the  church  there  was  a  grove  of  firs,  sombre 
among  their  trunks,  shining  on  their  high  tips,  and  in 
front  of  them  was  a  line  of  birches,  a  white  tracery 
against  the  dark  green.  There  were  maples  by  the 
gate,  fluffing  delicately  out  into  pale  green-yellow,  and 
a  red  maple  here  and  there,  tasselling  and  etched  in 
crimson.  He  looked  over  it  all,  then  went  around  to 
his  garden  at  the  side  of  the  house. 

There  was  some  one  there  before  him.  It  was  Yvonne 
Armaille.  She  was  standing  under  a  budding  apple 
tree,  and  when  she  saw  the  Cure  coming  she  backed  up 

90 


ANNE  CARMEL  91 

against  the  trunk,  and  put  her  finger  into  her  mouth, 
and  hung  her  head  to  one  side.  Her  bare  toes  were 
much  turned  in.  Yvonne  was  six  years  old  and  very 
plump  indeed.  Her  cheeks  puffed  out  red  and  round, 
and  her  arms  and  her  legs  were  shapeless.  Her  hair 
was  braided  into  two  tight,  black,  short  pigtails,  that 
stuck  out  on  either  side,  stiff,  finished  with  pieces  of 
scarlet  cotton  torn  into  strips.  She  was  a  funny  pic 
ture  of  embarrassment,  but  the  Cure  refrained  from 
laughing.  He  only  smiled.  "  Bon  jour,  ma  fille,"  he 
said. 

Yvonne  did  not  answer,  merely  stood  with  her  mouth 
open  and  her  finger  in  it.  What  could  he  do  for  her  ? 
he  asked.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  she  wanted 
something.  It  was  not  any  one's  custom  to  be  in  his 
garden  at  that  hour  of  the  morning,  least  of  all  was  it 
Yvonne's.  For  Yvonne  was  the  victim  of  extreme  and 
exaggerated  bashfulness.  The  fact  that  she  was  the 
greatest  heiress  of  the  parish  did  not  give  her  assur 
ance.  It  merely  drew  upon  her  an  amount  of  attention 
from  which  she  suffered  painfully,  though  not  to  the 
detriment  of  her  general  health.  What  could  he  do 
for  her  ?  the  Cure  repeated,  going  nearer.  And  she  did 
not  answer  still.  The  Cure  had  had  experience  with 
her  before,  and  he  thought  it  probable  that  with  proper 
preliminaries  and  the  exercise  of  great  tact  and  diplo 
macy,  and  by  avoiding  anything  that  might  remotely 
suggest  the  matter  in  hand,  she  might  be  brought  to 


92  ANNE  CAKMEL 

give  some  sort  of  utterance  to  it.  So  he  smiled  again 
and  turned  his  attention  to  his  early  spring  flowers, 
pulling  up  a  weed  or  two  and  taking  off  some  blighted 
leaves.  He  glanced  once  from  under  his  eyelids. 
Yvonne's  finger  was  out  of  her  mouth.  Unfortunately 
she  saw  the  glance.  The  finger  went  back  again  and 
the  toes,  twisting  nervously,  turned  yet  farther  in. 
The  Cure  resumed  the  care  of  his  flowers.  The  result 
of  this,  after  five  minutes,  was  a  deadlock.  The  Cure 
decided  it  must  be  broken.  "Viens  regarder  mes 
fleurs,"  he  said,  and  held  out  his  hand.  It  was  to  be 
obeyed  as  a  command. 

When  the  Cure  said,  "  Come  look  at  my  flowers," 
one  went  and  looked  at  his  flowers,  though  one 
might  be  enduring  all  things  possible  to  the  bashful. 
One  also  put  one's  hand  into  the  enormously  big 
one  that  covered  it  all  up,  pudgy  as  it  was.  Yvonne 
went  to  look  at  the  flowers.  But  she  looked  straight 
in  front  of  her,  fixedly,  her  finger  in  her  mouth,  her 
head  bobbing  on  her  white,  creased  neck,  as  she  let 
herself  be  half  dragged  along.  She  was  getting  no 
pleasure  out  of  the  Cure's  daffodils  and  tulips  and 
hyacinths,  of  which  he  was  so  proud.  To  be  sure, 
before  the  Cure  had  put  in  his  appearance  and  terrified 
her  into  something  approaching  coma,  she  had  en 
joyed  the  hyacinths.  She  had  bent  down  over  them 
and  smelled  them  with  her  nose  and  mouth.  But  now 
she  had  neither  sense  nor  senses.  She  was  the  merest 


ANNE  CABMEL  93 

piece  of  fat  little  girl,  stumping  along  beside  an  enor 
mous  man  in  black  —  and  that  man,  yet  more  awful, 
the  Cure.  If  she  could  have  spoken,  she  could  not 
have  remembered  what  it  was  she  had  come  for.  So 
the  elaborate  diplomacy  of  Monsieur  Carmel  failed  in 
the  end,  after  all.  He  might  talk  of  flowers,  address 
ing  and  looking  at  nothing  more  personal  than  the  air 
in  front  of  him,  or  he  might  keep  silence,  or  he  might 
question  again,  as  he  finally  did  ;  but  nothing  was  to 
be  known. 

Therefore  he  decided  that  he  would  go  to  see 
Yvonne's  great-grandmother,  Elise  Segur,  the  relative 
with  whom  she  lived.  It  might  be  that  the  old  woman 
had  sent  the  child  with  a  message  of  importance. 
"  Aliens  —  we  will  go  see  the  little  mamma,"  he  said. 

If  the  very  springs  of  sound  had  not  been  paralyzed, 
Yvonne  would  have  howled  with  terror  at  that.  Had 
she  been  bad  ?  She  knew  she  had  been  incredibly 
bold.  Was  she  to  be  taken  home  to  be  punished  ?  It 
did  not  occur  to  the  Cure  that  he  had  put  her  in  such  a 
state.  His  tone  had  been  as  kind  as  he  could  make  it. 
To  be  sure,  he  had  not  looked  at  her,  but  that  was 
because  he  was  afraid  of  embarrassing  her  yet  more. 
He  was  quite  unaware  that  it  was  a  victim  who  was 
dragged,  clumping  along  beside  him,  for  all  that  he 
tried  to  bring  his  steps  down  to  hers. 

But  it  turned  out  that  the  great-grandmother 
wanted  nothing.  The  little  wrinkled  face  inside  the 


94  ANNE  CARMEL 

nightcap  was  as  cheerful  as  possible.  Elise  Segur  was 
not  ill.  She  was  very  active.  But  she  was  distressed 
that  her  child  should  have  troubled  Monsieur  the  Cure, 
and  she  scolded  until  that  small  person,  completely 
overcome,  let  her  bowed  knees  give  way  under  her,  and 
collapsed  to  the  floor  —  still  in  speechlessness. 

The  Cure  abandoned  his  efforts  and  went  back 
home.  But  when  he  came  out  from  mass  Yvonne  was 
there  again.  Her  pigtails  still  stuck  out,  and  her 
mouth  was  still  open  and  occupied  by  a  forefinger,  and 
her  black  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the  Cure's  face  and 
never  left  it.  They  rolled  about  in  round  inexpres- 
siveness,  following  him  as  he  moved.  He  made  an 
other  attempt  with  no  more  success. 

But  he  was  interested  now.  He  was  sure  there  was 
something  she  wanted  to  say.  Yvonne  either  could 
not  or  would  not  tell  him,  however,  so  he  went  into  the 
house  and  left  her  standing  there,  staring  after  him  un 
happily.  He  spoke  to  his  mother  about  it  and  asked 
her  to  make  a  trial.  Madame  Carmel  went  out  and 
used  every  blandishment.  She  could  not  even  succeed 
in  getting  the  child  to  come  near  her,  and  when  she 
herself  approached,  Yvonne  backed  off  precipitately. 

There  is  small  fact  in  that  which  is  said  of  the 
intuition  of  children.  They  are  either  capricious  in 
their  fancies  and  smile  alike  on  the  just  and  the  unjust, 
the  sinner  and  the  saint,  the  kind-hearted  and  the 
cruel,  or  they  are  to  be  lured  by  benefits.  But  this 


ANNE  CARMEL  95 

much  is  true  —  that  they  can  read  anger  or  steady 
grief  in  a  face,  and  the  former  they  are  afraid  of,  the 
second  they  shrink  from  uneasily.  If  it  is  a  burst  of 
sorrow  such  as  they  themselves  often  know,  they  can 
understand  and  try  to  comfort.  But  no  man  or 
woman  in  whose  face  there  is  plain  anger  or  plain 
unhappiness  can  win  over  a  child.  There  was  unhap- 
piness  writ  so  large  on  the  face  of  madame  that 
Yvonne  would  as  soon  have  touched  something 
baleful.  Madame  went  in,  but  Yvonne  kept  on  hang 
ing  around.  She  returned  home  at  midday,  but  was 
promptly  back.  The  Cure  coming  in  and  out  found 
her  always  there,  round-eyed,  ringer  in  mouth,  pigeon- 
toed. 

Anne  tried  it  next.  She  almost  brought  speech 
by  tactics  of  indifferent  fellowship.  "Eh  bien,  la 
petite  ! "  she  said,  as  she  passed,  and  patted  the  smooth- 
parted,  slicked  little  head.  By  and  by  she  passed 
again,  tending  the  flowers,  paying  no  attention  to  the 
fixed  eyes.  "  Qu'est-ce-que  tu  veux,  hein?  What 
are  you  after?"  she  said,  but  she  did  not  even  wait 
for  the  reply.  Yvonne  visibly  took  heart.  She  was 
summoning  up  courage.  But  the  procesa  was  slow. 
All  processes  were  with  her.  Nevertheless,  she  at  last 
approached  the  hyacinth  bed  and  spoke.  Unfortu 
nately  her  voice  was  utterly  inaudible.  Anne  made 
a  dire  mistake.  She  should  have  kept  silence  at  the 
juncture,  and  have  allowed  Yvonne  to  speak  again  at 


96  ANNE   CAEMEL 

her  own  will.  But  she  looked  up  and  said,  "Hein?" 
Yvonne,  startled,  was  thrown  back  into  frozen  silence. 
It  was  hopeless.  Anne  gave  it  up.  She  had  other 
things  to  attend  to  and  she  went  indoors. 

Yvonne  disappeared  for  a  while  after  that.  But 
she  was  back  yet  again.  And  this  time  there  was  ex 
pression  in  the  round  eyes  —  also  latent  tears.  She 
was  miserable.  The  Cure  knew  now  that  something 
was  really  the  matter.  He  stooped  down  and  picked 
her  up  in  his  arms.  "  What  is  it,  little  one  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Tell  the  Cure.  Don't  be  afraid."  He  laid  his  face 
against  her  head. 

Yvonne's  heart  was  melted.  She  began  to  cry, 
and  presently  she  sobbed  out  the  trouble,  a  word  or 
two  at  a  time.  It  was  her  dog,  her  puppy.  The 
lower  lip  quivered  and  went  out  wofully.  Her 
puppy  had  a  —  a  broken  leg.  The  round  head  went 
down  on  Monsieur  the  Cure's  shoulder,  and  she  wailed 
aloud.  He  let  her  cry  for  a  few  minutes,  patting  her 
sturdy  back. 

"  And  you  want  me  to  see  to  it  ? "  he  asked  then. 

"  Voui,  M'sieu'  le  Cu — le  Cure."  He  set  her  down 
on  her  feet. 

"I  must  go  to  the  church  now  for  a  little  while," 
he  said.  "But  run  and  get  the  little  dog.  Bring 
him  to  me,  and  I  will  see  what  I  can  do." 

Yvonne  hurried  off  so  fast  that  she  fell  on  the  side 
walk,  and  as  luck  would  have  it  her  shiny  button  of 


ANNE   CARMEL  97 

a  nose  went  just  where  there  was  no  grass,  on  the 
slabs  of  stone.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  she 
would  have  wailed  aloud  again.  But  she  scrambled 
up  and  trotted  on.  Her  nose  was  really  considerably 
skinned,  but  what  did  that  matter  in  such  a  juncture 
as  this  ? 

When  Monsieur  Carmel  came  out  from  the  vestry, 
he  went  over  to  the  side  of  the  house  and  sat  himself 
down  on  the  doorstep.  Yvonne  followed  him,  the 
puppy  in  her  arms.  It  was  one  of  the  very  few  dogs 
in  the  parish  which  was  not  a  cur.  It  promised  to 
be  a  good  collie.  The  look  of  pain  on  its  poor  little 
face  was  truly  pathetic.  It  might  have  touched  the 
heart  of  a  harder  man  than  the  Cure.  And  besides, 
the  Cure  was  fond  of  dogs.  His  own  came  now  and 
sat  before  him,  cocking  one  ear,  and  wrinkling  its 
forehead — more  than  inclined  to  be  jealous. 

The  puppy's  paw  was  unquestionably  broken.  It 
had  come  too  near  the  heifer  at  milking  time  the  night 
before  —  smelling  the  milk  that  was  to  be  its  supper. 
And  the  heifer  had  kicked  out.  Yvonne  grew  quite 
communicative,  forgetting  herself  in  her  sympathy 
with  the  little  animal,  and  keeping  her  plump  hand 
upon  its  head,  while  the  Cure  examined  the  leg.  The 
puppy  had  cried  and  cried,  she  said.  It  had  made  so 
much  noise  that  p'tite  maman  had  had  it  shut  up  in 
the  barn  all  night. 

Then   Yvonne   herself    had   cried   also.     The   Cure 


98  ANNE  CARMEL 

managed  by  valiant  effort  to  remain  serious.  But  he 
had  visions  of  the  irascible  old  dame,  with  a  whim 
pering  puppy  on  one  side,  and  Yvonne  howling  on  the 
other.  For  there  was  not  usually  anything  quiet  about 
Yvonne's  grief  in  its  acute  stages.  The  child  went 
on.  She  had  wanted  p'tite  maman  to  let  Jacques,  the 
man,  do  something  for  the  puppy.  But  the  answer 
had  been  that  plenty  of  puppies  had  broken  legs,  and 
got  well  enough  for  all  practical  purposes,  in  time. 
Those  of  the  peasants  whom  hardship  and  denseness 
and  age  had  hardened  were  not  over  merciful  to  their 
beasts.  The  most  that  had  been  allowed  the  collie 
had  been  a  saucer  of  milk.  Yvonne  had  taken  that 
herself,  and  had  wept  over  the  puppy,  coaxing  it  to 
eat.  "  But  it  wouldn't,"  she  told  him.  "  It  just  cried 
and  cried." 

"And  so  you  thought  it  a  matter  to  which  only 
the  Cure  could  attend?" 

Yvonne  did  not  understand,  but  she  said  "Voui, 
M'sieu'  le  Cure."  She,  too,  had  been  trained  in 
politeness. 

The  mending  of  the  paw  was  a  tedious  affair.  The 
puppy  was  good,  only  whining  in  an  undertone,  and 
just  once  trying  its  tiny  white  teeth  on  the  Cure's 
finger,  when  the  pain  of  the  neglected  fracture  was 
especially  sharp.  It  was  not  a  bite  —  for  it  knew 
that  what  was  being  done  was  for  its  own  good  — 
only  a  pressure  of  protest  and  suffering.  Yvonne 


ANNE  CARMEL  99 

stroked  the  silky  head  and  murmured,  "  Courage, 
courage,"  while  the  tears  rolled  over  her  cheeks. 
Pilote  came  nearer  and  licked  a  pink  hind  paw  that 
hung  out  helplessly.  Anne  stood  above  them  in  the 
doorway,  watching.  It  was  she  who  made  a  splint 
out  of  black-birch  bark,  and  produced  bandages. 
"  There  is  a  liniment,"  suggested  the  Cure.  Once  his 
mother  had  had  a  sprained  wrist  and  had  used  arnica. 
The  bottle  was  still  on  hand.  Madame  found  it  and 
brought  it,  and  they  all  assisted  at  the  surgery.  The 
neighbors  saw  that  something  was  going  on  and  some 
of  them  came  to  the  fence  and  commented,  question 
ing  and  giving  advice  respectfully.  The  Cure  was 
serious  and  absorbed ;  his  big  hands  were  very  gentle. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  when  it  was  all  done  and  the 
puppy's  pink  tongue  tried  a  tentative  lick  at  his 
finger,  which  unfortunately  tasted  of  arnica  —  "now 
we  will  keep  the  little  dog  here  until  it  is  well,  if 
you  like."  He  did  not  say  so,  but  he  had  fears  of 
the  great-grandmother's  patience  with  an  invalid  of 
the  sort.  Probably  Yvonne  had  thought  that  all 
out  previously,  for  she  agreed  at  once;  and  under 
standing  the  half-expressed  was  not  common  with 
her. 

So  the  assembled  populace  dispersed,  and  the  collie 
was  put  in  a  box  full  of  soft  rags,  by  the  fire. 
Yvonne  gave  it  a  last  pat.  Then  she  stood  up  and 
went  to  the  Cure.  She  took  his  hand  and  put  her 


100  ANNE   CAKMEL 

crimson  lips  to  it.  But,  on  the  instant,  she  saw  that 
Madame  Carmel  was  watching  her.  Her  bashfulness 
came  back  twofold.  She  ran  all  four  fingers  into 
her  opened  mouth  and  sidled  slowly  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

JEAN  CARMEL  had  not  had  a  satisfactory  Sunday 
afternoon.  There  had  been  vespers,  and  he  had  made 
a  short  address.  He  had  talked  down  to  the  level  of 
his  people.  And  talking  down  to  a  lower  understand 
ing  is  always  much  more  exhausting  than  any  amount 
of  striving  upward  toward  a  higher  plane.  After  that 
he  had  come  out  from  the  church  and  had  spoken  to 
those  who  had  waited  to  see  him.  The  conversations 
had  not  been  uplifting,  certainly  —  small  woes,  and 
gossip  and  complaints,  or,  infinitely  worse,  small  mor- 
alizings  of  the  cheapest  stamp.  Very  vital  to  the 
moralizers,  in  a  few  cases,  they  were  perhaps  —  in  most, 
obviously  designed  to  be  edifying  to  the  priest. 

Then  he  had  gathered  a  bunch  of  the  lilacs  which 
were  just  fully  in  bloom  in  the  presbytere  garden,  and 
had  taken  them  over  to  Madame  Lavisse.  The 
daughter  had  died  at  the  end  of  the  winter,  and  grief 
had  left  the  woman  half  foolish.  She  had  sobbed  over 
her  troubles  to-day  as  he  had  already  heard  her  do 
uncounted  times  before.  Lavisse  had  told,  with  elab 
orate  detail,  of  a  cow  that  had  calved  and  of  how  his 

101 


102  ANNE  CARMEL 

chickens  would  not  lay.  The  daughter-in-law  had  gone 
into  minutiae  of  her  baby's  doings.  And  he  had  come 
out  feeling  that  his  mind  had  been  made  for  wider 
themes.  Moreover,  the  scent  of  the  lilacs  he  had  carried 
in  his  arms  to  Madame  Lavisse  had  brought  up  to  him  as 
he  had  walked  between  the  meadows  the  memory  of 
the  lilac  time  in  France.  Just  after  his  ordination  he 
had  travelled  on  the  continent  for  a  year,  and  made  a 
pilgrimage  to  Rome  with  another  priest.  It  was  the 
thing  he  had  enjoyed  most  in  his  life.  And  sometimes 
he  knew  what  it  meant  —  la  nostalgic  des  grandes 
routes.  He  had  it  now,  that  longing  for  the  open 
roads  —  and  a  longing  for  the  speech  of  open  minds. 

But  neither  was  to  be  gratified,  or  was  justifiable. 
He  stopped  thinking  about  it  and  walked  with  a  longer 
stride  down  the  road,  and  turned  off  from  there  into  the 
woods.  They  were  the  woods  through  which  the  high 
way  from  the  railroad  ran.  He  struck  into  that, 
coming  out  on  it  just  at  the  top  of  a  knoll.  He  was  in 
a  grove  of  maples  and  birch  and  beech  for  the  most 
part,  and  the  trunks  were  slender,  and  the  leafage  light 
as  yet,  so  that  he  could  look  over  the  village  to  the 
sunset  where  the  flaming  of  the  furnace  heart  burst 
through  a  bank  of  dark  clouds  and  the  trees  stood 
out  distinct  against  it,  every  branch  black,  as  if  charred 
by  the  fire. 

A  big  crow,  glossy  and  cumbersome,  swooped  off 
from  a  limb  and  went  flying  away  straight  for  the  sun- 


ANNE  CARMEL  103 

set.  He  watched  it.  It  cawed,  and  the  harsh  sound 
came  back  to  him.  Then  there  was  another  sound,  of 
voices  and  footsteps.  Some  one  was  coming.  He 
turned  to  look,  but  there  was  a  bend  in  the  road  a  few 
feet  away.  A  yellow  shaft  from  the  sunset  fell  just 
then,  slanting  along  the  opening  between  the  thin  rows 
of  trees.  A  woman  came  out  into  it.  She  stopped 
short  and  stood  in  the  ray,  dazzled.  Two  men  were 
just  behind,  a  young  one  and  an  older.  They  were 
neither  French  nor  habitant.  The  Cure's  hat  was  in 
his  hand.  His  head  was  erect  in  the  yellow  light, 
outlined  by  the  glow.  "  Good  evening,"  he  said  civilly, 
and  moved  from  the  way  to  let  them  pass. 

But  they  did  not  go  on.  They  came  up  to  him  and 
began  to  ask  questions.  Did  monsieur  speak  English  ? 
(and  monsieur  knew  at  once  that  they  were  from  the 
States).  The  girl  watched  him  as  he  bowed  the  fine 
head  gravely.  Then,  was  that  the  village  of  St.  Hilaire 
down  below  —  the  scattered  white  houses  and  the 
church?  He  told  them  that  it  was.  There  was  an 
inn  there,  they  had  understood.  He  looked  dubious 
at  that.  There  was  an  inn,  of  a  sort,  yes  ;  but  hardly 
the  sort  to  which  a  woman  would  care  to  go ; 
hardly  more  than  a  tavern.  The  Cure's  English,  as 
the  result  of  much  reading  and  little  practice,  was 
rather  classic  than  colloquial. 

The  men  were  inclined  to  be  resentful.  They  had 
been  told  at  the  railroad  station  that  there  was  a  good 


104  ANNE  CAEMBL 

inn  at  St.  Hilaire.  They  had  ridden  part  of  the  way  in 
a  charette,  then  they  had  got  out  to  walk  and  sent  the 
charette  ahead  with  their  bundles.  As  for  themselves, 
the  inn  would  not  matter  —  but —  The  Cure  depre 
cated  it.  St.  Hilaire  was  not  often  honored  with  travel 
lers,  only  at  best  an  occasional  habitant  on  his  journeys, 
or  a  hunter  going  into  the  bush,  or  some  one  with 
things  to  sell.  Perhaps  there  was  some  house  — but  the 
families  of  the  villagers  were  large  and  the  cottages 
small.  "  However,"  he  told  them, "  I  have  a  mother  and 
a  sister  —  and  the  presbytere.  is  at  the  service  of — 
madame." 

She  corrected  it  with  a  rather  listless  smile. 
"Mademoiselle,"  she  said. 

A  young  villager  and  a  girl  came  toward  them  and 
passed  with  a  "  Bon  soi' "  and  a  stare.  They  were  arm 
in  arm,  and  the  man  was  smoking  a  pipe.  At  the 
turn  of  the  road  the  man  stopped  and  watched  deliber 
ately. 

The  Cure*  and  the  other  three  stood  talking  for  a  few 
moments.  Then  they  started  off  in  the  direction  of 
the  village. 

The  Cure  went  fast,  because  he  was  accustomed  to 
doing  so.  Anne  was,  as  a  rule,  the  only  woman  who 
could  keep  up  with  him.  But  this  one  had  a  long, 
swinging  step  as  practised  as  Anne's.  In  some  ways 
she  was  not  altogether  unlike  his  sister,  he  thought. 
She  was  tall,  too,  but  more  slender.  She  was  not  so 


ANNE  CARMEL  105 

erect,  and  did  not  give  the  same  impression  of  strength. 
Anne  was  of  the  forest,  but  this  one  was  of  the  garden, 
rather.  Anne's  hair  was  dark  brown  and  full  of  color ; 
this  one  had  hair  the  color  of  long  field  grass  dried  in 
the  sun.  She  talked  with  something  the  listlessness  of 
her  smile.  The  two  men,  she  told  him,  were  her  uncle 
and  his  son.  The  one  was  a  naturalist  who  was  study 
ing  the  flora  and  the  birds.  The  other  was  an  artist. 
He  might  have  learned  more,  but  the  uncle  came  up 
and  she  dropped  back,  walking  with  her  cousin. 

They  were  on  the  level  now,  going  into  the  village. 
The  road  was  dusty.  There  was  a  field  on  either  side 
yellow  with  dandelions  and  white  with  the  star-of- 
Bethlehem  drifting  in  patches  like  a  thin  fall  of  snow. 
The  shadow  of  some  big  knotted  willows  just  coming 
into  leaf  fell  long  over  the  grass,  and  the  water  in  a 
stony  little  ditch  by  the  wayside  rippled  along  with  a 
clear,  sweet  sound.  Except  for  that  there  was  only 
the  quick  chirp  of  a  flock  of  robins  hopping  about  in 
one  of  the  fields,  their  breasts  very  red  in  the  low 
light. 

In  the  village  itself  the  people  gathered  in  the  door 
ways  to  look  at  them.  These  were  the  strangers 
whose  fame  and  effects  had  preceded  them.  The  effects 
had  gone  to  the  inn,  but  the  strangers  passed  it  by. 
They  went  on  to  the  end  of  the  street,  to  the  presby- 
tere,  and  stopped  at  the  gate.  Then  the  men  came 
back  to  the  inn  and  the  woman  went  up  the  path  with 


106  ANNE  CARMEL 

the  Cure.  Some  of  them  began  to  bethink  themselves 
of  advice,  spiritual  or  material,  they  would  want  that 
evening. 

There  was  only  one  person  in  the  room  when  the 
Cure  put  the  door  open  and  stood  aside.  She  was  in 
front  of  the  large  open  fire,  bending  over  a  box  from 
which  the  head  of  a  small  collie  puppy  showed.  A 
bristly  yellow  dog  was  near  her. 

"  Anne,"  spoke  the  Cure.  She  stood  up  and  turned. 
"  I  have  brought  you  a  guest,"  he  said.  The  girl  by 
the  fire  looked  at  the  one  on  the  threshold  in  the 
twilight  —  and  their  attitudes  were  those  of  the  woman 
in  disgrace  and  the  woman  who  has  never  known  it. 
It  was  a  quick  look  from  Anne.  Then  her  head  went 
back  with  a  defensive  movement.  Her  brother  saw  it 
and  understood  in  a  flash.  There  occurred  to  him  then 
what  had  occurred  to  her  on  the  instant.  Was  she  the 
woman  with  whom  another  woman  would  care  to  be 
thrown  unwarned  ? 

The  Cure's  voice  was  determined.  "  It  is  my  sister, 
mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "Anne  Carmel."  Anne  ac 
cepted  it  then.  The  responsibility  was  his.  The  girl 
on  the  threshold  came  forward.  "  And  I,"  she  offered, 
"am  Cecily  Thome." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  leaven  of  the  creeds  of  Revenge  is  working  still 
in  the  measures  of  the  creed  of  Love.  And  it  is  a 
view  of  the  matter  eminently  Christian  that  the  body 
and  intellect  a  little  less  than  perfect  should  be  dedi 
cated  to  the  service  of  the  altar  of  God  —  though  the 
gods  of  Eleusis  and  Delphi,  of  Thebes  and  of  the  North, 
may  have  had  the  best  —  and  the  sons  of  Levi  were 
assuredly  not  weaklings. 

Doubtless  there  is  to  account  for  it  the  peaceful 
basis  of  the  faith  itself,  and  the  fact  that  the  faithful 
have  not  yet  recognized  and  accepted  its  ultimity  in  so 
far  as  to  disassociate  forbearance  and  impotence. 

And  it  was  natural  enough  that  Cecily  Thorne  should 
have  looked  on  it  as  rather  a  waste  of  fine  material  that 
Jean  Carmel  should  be  the  cure  of  a  remote  backwoods 
village,  devoting  distinctly  tangible  strength  to  the  care 
of  the  intangible  soul.  As  a  Franciscan  or  a  Jesuit 
missionary,  such  as  in  the  old  days  had  gone  forth  into 
the  wilderness  to  meet  the  savage  and  to  share  his  life, 
it  would  have  been  conceivable  that  the  robes  of  a  priest 
should  have  covered  the  form  of  an  athlete.  But  there 

107 


108  ANNE  CARMEL 

was  surely  a  question  of  its  appropriateness  here  in  an 
habitant  parish.  A  Cure  mildly  benign  in  age  and  a 
little  feeble,  or  a  little  heavy  with  long  ease,  a  small, 
meagre,  or  insignificant  man,  could  have  served  the 
purpose  as  well. 

Lying  in  Anne's  bed  and  looking  into  the  darkness, 
she  seemed  to  see  a  bared  head  outlined  against  the 
hot  yellow  light  of  the  sunset.  The  head  was  sugges 
tive  of  more  power  than  could  be  needed  in  this  parish. 
Yet  that  perhaps  was  a  distorted  view  to  take  of  it, 
after  all ;  and,  since  perfection  and  strength  were  at  the 
creation,  to  a  normal  mind  it  should  have  seemed  alto 
gether  suitable  that  here,  where  nature  was  none  the 
less  magnificent  for  being  peaceful,  a  priest  in  keeping 
with  the  surroundings  should  serve  the  God  of  Peace. 

And  existence  itself  was  surely  peaceful  here,  she  con 
cluded — a  conclusion  old  as  the  dreams  of  theorists  who 
color  life  with  their  fancies,  rather  than  their  fancies 
with  life,  and  who  have  chosen  to  ignore  that  to  dwell 
close  to  nature  is  to  dwell  close  to  the  material,  to  be 
in  the  stage  of  human  development  which  deals  much 
with  the  colors  of  passions  and  little  with  the  shades  of 
sentiment. 

Cecily  Thorne  settled  it  out  of  hand  to  her  own 
satisfaction  that  Anne  Carmel  was  happy.  Her  life 
would  insure  that  —  although  it  might  well  be  the 
result  of  locality  rather  than  of  temperament.  Anne's 
temperament  was  problematical.  And  it  was  a  prob- 


ANNE  CAKMEL  109 

lem  that  Mathew  Thorne  was  already  trying  to  work 
out.  It  was  to  be  hoped  he  would  not  find  it  of 
unduly  absorbing  interest.  She  had  watched  him  dur 
ing  the  evening  when  they  had  all  been  together  in  the 
presbytere  sitting  room,  and  she  had  seen  that  he  was 
speculating  as  to  Anne.  He  would  do  well  not  to 
bring  any  disturbing  influences  into  the  little  family. 

And  the  Cure's  sister  had  a  lover  no  doubt,  some 
young  French  Canadian  of  the  better  class,  probably. 
The  only  wonder  was  that  she  was  not  long  since  mar 
ried.  She  was  four  and  twenty  —  and  girls  married 
young  here.  She  would  love  simply,  too,  and  without 
splitting  the  golden  cord  into  a  thousand  fine  wires 
that  would  cut  first  and  snap  afterward.  She  would 
marry  and  have  children,  many  of  them  in  all  likelihood. 
In  due  course  she  would  have  grandchildren.  Then 
she  would  die,  a  good  Catholic,  quite  sure  of  Heaven, 
once  she  should  have  got  absolution  from  her  aged 
brother,  —  or  perhaps  from  the  cure  who  should  have 
come  after,  —  since  superb  young  priests  must  grow  old 
in  their  ministrations  and  pass  away  to  where  the 
beauty  and  strength  of  the  dust  avail  not. 

The  big  pines  of  these  forests  became  bare  in  time, 
and  the  gray  and  green  lichens  covered  them,  and  the 
moss  hung  from  dried  and  brittle  branches,  and  they 
fell,  and  for  a  while  there  was  a  mound  where  they 
were  mouldering.  Then  even  that  was  gone. 

But  Anne  —  she  would  have  been  satisfied  and  quite 


110  ANNE   CARMBL 

happy.  What  else  could  happen  where  there  was  no  field 
for  ambition  and  hardly  more  for  envy,  where  wealth 
and  poverty  were  both  moderate,  and  civilization  pro 
duced  no  complications  ?  Everything  was  surely  nor 
mal  here,  and  the  very  atmosphere  gave  rest  to  the 
weary  —  such  as  was  Cecily  herself  —  and  sleep. 

But  Anne  lay  awake  all  night.  She  had  had  a 
letter,  an  almost  illegible  half-dozen  lines,  from  Harnett. 
He  was  ill  and  in  a  hospital.  The  wound  in  his  head 
was  giving  new  trouble.  There  was  rather  more  than 
the  possibility  of  danger. 

She  had  not  spoken  of  it  even  to  Jean,  and  all  the 
evening,  as  she  had  sat  with  the  others  around  the  fire, 
she  had  given  no  sign.  But  when  Mathew  Thorne  had 
said  good  night  he  had  felt  that  her  hand  was  unsteady 
and  icy  cold,  and  had  given  a  quick  look  of  surprise. 

In  the  early  morning  she  went  into  the  sitting  room. 
Jean  was  asleep  there.  He  had  turned  over  his  own 
room  to  her,  and  had  put  a  husk  mattress  in  front  of 
the  fireplace  on  the  bright  striped  bit  of  rag  carpet. 
There  was  a  gray  blanket  with  a  red  border  covering 
him  to  the  chin,  and  he  looked  more  like  a  soldier 
who  had  thrown  himself  down  to  rest  where  he  might, 
than  like  a  priest.  One  hand  was  uncovered  and  just 
touched  the  collie  puppy.  He  had  taken  it  from  its 
box,  and  it  had  curled  in  close  to  him,  its  little  white 
and  fawn-colored  nose  between  its  paws  —  one  of  them 
still  splinted  and  bandaged. 


ANNE  CARMEL  111 

Anne,  like  some  dark-robed,  white-faced  embodi 
ment  of  a  long  night  tragedy  coming  out  into  the 
dreary  day,  stood  looking  down  at  him.  Probably 
he  had  read  until  late.  Pilote,  on  the  rag  carpet  at 
his  head,  waked,  moved,  and  got  up,  stretching  and 
yawning  lazily,  and  came  over  to  Anne,  following 
her  when  she  went  out  to  the  kitchen. 

When  she  came  back  half  an  hour  later,  Jean  was 
up  and  dressed.  He  had  built  the  fire  —  there  were 
fires  in  the  hearths  and  stoves  of  the  presbytere 
long  before  and  long  after  any  other  house  in  the 
parish  indulged  in  them.  It  was  looked  upon  as  an 
extravagance,  but  excused  upon  the  grounds  of  Mon 
sieur  Carmel's  city  birth  and  upbringing,  which  had 
had  naturally  a  sybaritic  tendency. 

He  was  standing  on  one  side  of  the  hearth  reading 
his  Testament.  Anne  had  a  saucer  of  milk  for  the 
puppy.  She  set  it  on  the  floor,  then  stood  opposite 
Jean,  watching  the  flames  smoking  up  yellow  and  blue, 
from  the  new  wood. 

He  stopped  reading  and  observed  her.  She  met 
his  eyes  before  long,  and  knowing  what  they  meant, 
shrugged  her  shoulders  indifferently,  forcing  herself 
to  smile.  But  it  was  a  failure,  and  she  gave  over 
the  attempt.  "  If  I  can  help  you  —  "  he  suggested. 

"  You  can't,"  she  told  him ;  "  nobody  can." 

He  nodded  and  went  on  reading.  Then  he  closed  the 
little  book.  "  There  was  once  a  heathen  philosopher," 


112  ANNE   CARMEL 

he  said  slowly,  "  who  believed  in  a  very  good  way  of 
finding  peace,  —  to  pray,  not  saying  to  ourselves,  '  How 
shall  I  have  this  thing  ? '  but  rather,  '  How  shall  I  not 
desire  to  have  it?" 

She  stood  thinking.  The  negative  attitude  of  mind 
was  not  one  to  appeal  to  her  especially.  "You  mean 
my  love,  I  suppose,"  she  said;  "but  I  don't  want  to 
'not  desire  to  have  it.'  I  —  only  you  can't  under 
stand,  Jean  —  you  shouldn't,  of  course.  And  no  one 
can  explain." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  moved  off  to  put  the  Tes 
tament  back  on  the  shelf.  Then  he  went  out  to  the 
kitchen  and  came  in  with  an  armful  of  wood,  laid 
it  beside  the  hearth,  and  brushed  the  chips  and 
dust  from  his  cassock. 

"  It  is  only,"  said  Anne,  without  any  preface,  "  that 
he  is  very  ill."  She  had  never  yet  let  slip  Harnett's 
name.  "The  wound  in  his  head  has  been  troubling 
him,  and  they  have  cut  into  it.  He  may  die.  He 
may  be  dead  by  now."  Jean  Carmel  put  down  a 
quick  hope  that  he  might  be. 

"He  may  also  be  alive  by  now,"  he  reminded  her. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  impatiently,  "but  I  want  to 
know."  He  realized  that  the  suspense  must  go  hard 
with  her.  She  was  of  a  nature  so  positive  and  decisive. 
What  she  determined  she  did  —  forthwith.  She  was  of 
those  who  had  rather  blunder  in  haste  than  go  right 
slowly.  He  remembered  how,  when  she  had  been  a 


ANNE  CARMEL  113 

child,  to  be  told  "We  will  see,"  had  roused  all  her 
temper.  "Tell  me  I  may  not  do  it,"  she  had  said 
once,  exasperated  to  shrillness  and  beating  her  clenched 
hands  together,  "  but  don't  tell  me  you  '  will  see  if 
I  may.'  "  Uncertainty  must  go  doubly  hard  with  her. 

She  was  standing  very  still,  and  her  face  was  as 
gray  as  the  light.  The  only  color  about  her  was  the 
scintillation  from  the  fire  in  her  hair. 

"  I  wonder  how  women  have  stood  this  —  always  — 
since  the  very  first  ?  "  she  said  half  to  herself.  "  We 
must  always  wait  — always  be  inactive."  Her  voice 
was  heavy  and  monotonous.  Where  was  the  use  of 
being  shrill  and  exasperated  with  Fate  ?  It  was  more 
unalterable  than  a  cautious  mother  —  and  so  much 
more  immovable. 

"  I  don't  see  how  they  have  borne  it,"  she  repeated. 
He  did  not  answer  her  at  once.  Then  he  said,  "By 
obeying  the  first  commandment — perhaps." 

She  brushed  it  away  with  a  movement  of  the  hand. 
Consolations  of  that  sort  were  not  what  she  wanted 
—  and  she  had  been  reckless  of  commandments. 

"  By  realizing,"  he  finished  calmly,  "  their  place  in  a 
very  big  universe,  and  not  letting  the  one  personal 
trouble  fill  up  all  their  vision." 

It  was  an  appeal  to  something  which  answered. 
And  she  was  not  small  enough  to  whine  over  his 
severity,  —  a  respect  in  which  she  was  easier  to  deal 
with  than  most  women.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her 


114  ANNE  CARMEL 

head.  "  Hein,  Anne,  P'tite  Chose !  "  he  said  kindly. 
Then  he  left  her  to  think  it  over. 

She  had  thought  it  over  to  so  much  purpose  that 
when  Cecily  Thorne  came  out  of  her  room  a  little 
later,  her  preconceptions  of  pastoral  peace  were  not 
disturbed.  The  last  thing  she  would  have  imagined 
was  the  fragment  of  human  experience  in  the  early 
dawn.  Anne  and  her  mother  —  a  mother  for  a  classic 
tragedy  —  were  putting  on  their  hats  to  go  in  to  mass. 

Cecily  went  with  them.  It  was  already  understood 
that  she  was  not  of  their  faith.  But  Madame  Carmel 
had  lived  long  enough  among  heretics  to  tolerate  them 
while  awaiting  their  subsequent  damnation. 

It  was  raining  when  they  came  out  from  the  church, 
—  a  rain  that  fell  straight  and  fine  from  dark,  charged 
clouds  to  the  dark  earth,  splashing  back  from  the 
stones  in  white  drops.  But  in  the  east  the  clouds  had 
not  yet  quite  closed  over  and  there  was  a  light  there, 
as  of  a  pale  sun  shining  through  a  curtain  of  thin 
silver,  —  very  clear  and  very  cold.  There  was  not  a 
breath  of  wind,  even  the  leaves  of  the  flowers  only 
stirred  with  the  falling  drops.  It  was  a  rain  that 
would  last  all  day.  And  within  half  an  hour  the  light 
had  quite  gone  from  the  east,  the  whole  sky  was  an 
even  gray,  and  the  rain  came  in  a  downpour,  drifting 
off  the  roof  in  puffs  of  spray.  The  branches  of  the 
climbing  roses  whipped  and  rebounded  against  the 
windows  now,  and  the  purple  and  white  of  the  lilacs 


ANNE  CARMEL  115 

surged  up  and  down.  At  intervals  a  yellow  shine  of 
lightning  spread  over  the  curtain  of  driving  water. 

The  Cure*  was  out.  Madame  Carmel  had  gone  off 
also,  in  the  presbytere  buggy  behind  the  big  sorrel 
horse,  which  had  apparently  never  in  its  life  been 
groomed  or  clipped.  She  was  to  spend  the  whole  day 
with  Madame  Tetrault,  who  was  ill.  Anne  was  busy 
in  the  kitchen  with  Amelie  Latouche. 

Cecily  sat  in  front  of  the  fire  playing  with  the 
puppy  for  a  while.  She  looked  into  the  flames  with 
wide-open,  soft  eyes.  There  was  a  world  where 
ambition  and  restlessness  were  the  measures  of  suc 
cess  and  worth  —  but  it  was  very  far  away  from  here. 
Here  there  was  peace,  as  brooding  as  the  gray  clouds, 
and  a  quietness  that  fell  on  the  mind,  bringing  up 
little  new  seedlings  of  thought,  as  the  spring  rain  fell 
on  the  soil  outside,  to  bring  up  the  young  grass  and 
plants. 

She  stroked  the  puppy's  silky  hair  with  one  hand, 
and  it  devoted  itself  in  turn  to  washing  each  one  of  the 
fingers  of  the  other  hand,  from  palm  to  tip,  with 
the  minutest  care.  When  she  rubbed  softly  around 
the  splint  on  the  broken  paw,  it  closed  its  eyes  in 
drowsy  bliss. 

After  a  while  she  heard  the  knob  of  the  side  door 
turn  with  a  good  deal  of  rattling.  She  looked  up. 
The  door  opened  slowly,  and  a  small  girl  of  the  most 
solid  build  compatible  with  movement  stood  there. 


116  ANNE  CARMEL 

She  saw  a  stranger  and  was  rooted  to  the  spot,  unable 
to  so  much  as  get  a  linger  to  her  mouth.  This  was 
terrible  beyond  any  experience  she  had  ever  before 
suffered.  She  was  by  no  means  intuitive,  but  she 
divined  at  once  a  difference  between  the  person  there 
on  the  hearth  and  all  the  others  to  whom  she  was  mod 
erately  accustomed.  She  even  connected  her  vaguely 
with  the  strange  man  who  had  stood  in  the  doorway 
of  the  tavern,  just  now,  as  she  had  passed  with  a  very 
large  and  rusty  umbrella  serving  as  a  background 
rather  than  as  a  protection.  The  horrible  creature 
had  called  another  man,  an  older  one,  to  look  at  her, 
saying  something  she  did  not  understand.  She  had 
stopped  without  knowing  it.  But  at  the  laugh  of  the 
older  man  she  had  turned  and  fled,  the  umbrella  close 
over  her  head,  and  only  the  edge  of  a  skirt  and  two 
short,  thick,  bare  legs  showing  from  beneath  it. 

But  here  she  was  not  able  to  get  either  forward 
or  back,  and  then  the  thing  she  dreaded  happened. 
The  lady  spoke  to  her.  What  did  she  want  ?  She  had 
not  the  glimmer  of  an  idea  what  she  wanted.  She 
stared  into  mental  vacancy,  and  her  eyes  were  black 
and  round,  and  her  braids  stuck  out  short  and  stiff. 
Did  she  wish  to  see  the  Cure  ?  She  was  dumb.  The 
lady  in  front  of  the  fire  put  aside  the  puppy  and  rose 
up.  Yvonne's  terror  reached  the  notch  where  move 
ment  was  again  possible.  She  backed  out  and  shut  the 
door.  Cecily  went  and  opened  it.  But  Yvonne  edged 


ANNE  CARMEL  117 

still  farther  out  into  the  garden.  She  had  put  down 
her  umbrella  and  left  it  by  the  doorway,  so  she  stood 
unprotected  in  the  sheeting  rain,  amid  the  daffodils  and 
hyacinths. 

Cecily  went  then  and  reported  it  to  Anne.  "  I  seem 
to  have  frightened  her  so  that  she  would  rather  be 
drowned  than  come  near  me."  "It's  Yvonne,"  Anne 
told  her,  and  went  out.  She  took  the  little  girl  up. 
Yvonne  struggled  with  creditable  strength,  the  surpris 
ing  strength  of  small  animals  who  use  every  one  of 
their  supple  muscles  in  concert.  But  it  made  no  im 
pression  upon  Anne.  She  came  into  the  house  and  shut 
the  door.  "This  is  Mademoiselle  Thorne,"  she  said, 
putting  Yvonne  down,  "  and  she  will  not  speak  to  you 
or  look  at  you.  You  can  play  with  your  dog,  or  you 
can  take  that  big  umbrella  and  go  home  if  you  had 
rather.  But  you  shall  not  stand  in  the  rain  and  get  all 
wet."  Yvonne  had  backed  away  until  the  wall  pre 
vented  her  going  any  farther.  Her  bright  black  eyes 
never  left  Anne's  face.  "If  you  don't  speak  to  her, 
and  pay  her  no  attention,  she  will  be  contented," 
Anne  said  to  Cecily.  The  English,  which  had  been 
rusty  with  disuse  until  Harnett  had  come,  went  glibly 
enough  now  —  albeit  with  an  occasional  Gallicism. 
Miss  Thome's  French  was  equally  easy,  and  they 
changed  from  one  to  the  other  with  as  little  trouble 
as  though  she  herself,  like  the  Carmels,  had  come  from 
a  city  of  a  dual  tongue. 


118  ANNE  CARMEL 

She  took  the  suggestion,  and,  leaving  the  fireplace, 
turned  her  attention  markedly  to  the  books.  They 
filled  three  good  shelves,  and  ranged  from  the  Latin 
Testament,  the  "  Journee  du  Chretien,"  and  "Le  Combat 
Spirituel,"  to  "  Juvenal's  Satires,"  a  few  modern  novels, 
and  a  much  dog-eared  and  falling-apart  life  of  Abelard 
and  Helo'ise.  The  battered  story  of  that  love,  which 
the  intellect  c.f  the  lovers  has  raised  above  all  others  of 
history,  struck  her  as  being  a  little  out  of  place  in  the 
small  library  of  a  cure  of  a  St.  Hilaire.  But  the  name 
across  the  first  page  was  Madame  Carmel's.  Did  the 
Cure's  sister  indulge  herself  in  literature  of  the  sort  ? 
she  wondered  —  and  was  her  mind  soil  in  which  the 
superb  self-abandonment  of  the  reputed  niece  of  the 
Chanoine  Fulbert  would  take  root  and  bring  forth  fruit 
after  its  kind  ?  Anne  Carmel  was  apparently  of  an 
individuality  which  caused  speculation  —  the  result 
doubtless  of  her  steady  gray  eyes  and  restraint  of  man 
ner.  A  woman  with  inscrutable  eyes  and  a  repressed, 
self-contained  manner  might  be  simplicity  itself  and 
devoid  of  all  complications  and  depth,  but  she  would 
awaken  conjecture. 

Anne  herself  came  back  into  the  room. 

The  night  before,  after  Miss  Thorne  had  gone  to 
bed,  she  had  spoken  to  Jean.  "Have  you  told  her 
—  about  me?"  she  had  asked. 

"  Assuredly  not,"  he  had  answered. 

"But  she  might  dislike  being  here,  if  she  knew," 
she  had  opposed. 


ANNE  CARMBL  119 

It  was  not  in  any  way  humility.  It  was  nearer 
being  a  defensive  pride  that  objected  to  false  colors. 
If  her  brother  had  given  her  the  smallest  encourage 
ment,  she  would  have  gone  to  Cecily  and  have  told 
her  everything,  and  that  baldly  and  crudely,  with  as 
little  self -justification  as  possible.  But  he  had  failed  to 
encourage  her.  And  after  all,  he  had  suggested,  what 
did  they  themselves  know  of  Miss  Thome?  "She 
must  take  us  on  trust,  as  we  have  taken  her." 

Anne,  however,  was  not  satisfied.  She  intended  to 
find  out  Cecily's  attitude  on  questions  of  the  sort 
in  general,  if  not  in  this  specific  case.  The  book 
that  she  found  her  reading  gave  an  opening  ready  to 
hand.  She  went  and  stood  by  the  window  in  front 
of  her,  and  began  to  speak  of  the  story.  It  appeared 
then  that  she  had  read  it. 

Miss  Thorne  was  not  inclined  to  throw  in  any  pebble 
of  liberal  philosophy  which  might  perhaps  ripple  the 
tranquil  waters  of  this  village  girl's  life.  She  parried 
Anne's  questions  with  considerable  adroitness,  while 
escaping  the  condemnation  that  conventional  morality 
required.  "And  you  —  what  do  you  think?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  ?  "  said  Anne.  "  It  is  not  of  much  importance. 
I  think  she  was,  not  better  than  the  Magdalen,  perhaps, 
but  braver  —  because  she  would  not  repent."  The  per 
sonal  note  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  But  Miss  Thome's 
dreamy  eyes  did  not  change  as  they  looked  into  the 


120  ANNE  CARMEL 

unsuspected  depth.     The  vision  of  pastoral  peace  was 
gone  in  a  ray  of  cold,  hard  light. 

Even  the  village  of  St.  Hilaire,  the  little  pres- 
bytere  of  its  priest,  had  not  only  its  temptations,  but 
perhaps  its  falls. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  flock  of  St.  Hilaire  was  one  prone,  for  the  most 
part,  to  remain  in  the  green  pastures  close  to  the  fold. 
But  it  had  its  wandering  sheep  —  Antoine,  who  had  been 
in  his  youth  the  property  of  O'Hara.  O'Hara  had  gone 
out  to  the  new  West  in  the  seventies,  had  stayed  a  few 
years  until  the  fact  that  he  had  fallen  heir  to  his 
father's  farm,  and  also  that  he  was  homesick,  brought 
him  back  to  the  Lower  Province  and  the  sound  of  the 
Canadian  bells.  He  had  returned  with  a  boy  of  four  or 
five  who  was,  he  gave  it  out,  an  orphan  Me*tis.  But  it 
was  commonly  believed  that,  though  the  child  was  cer 
tainly  a  half-breed,  he  was  not  altogether  orphaned,  that 
O'Hara  himself  was,  in  fact,  his  father.  This,  how 
ever,  did  not  prevent  the  Irishman's  marriage  with  a 
most  respectable  little  habitant  girl,  by  whom  he  had 
in  due  time  a  large  family.  Antoine  was  kept  to  grow 
up  with  the  legitimate  children,  an  arrangement  never 
satisfactory  since  the  days  of  the  tragedy  of  the  wilder 
ness  of  Beer-sheba.  Madame  O'Hara  registered  objec 
tions  directly  upon  the  arrival  of  the  first-born. 
O'Hara,  however,  did  not  consider  himself  bidden  of 

121 


122  ANNE   CARMEL 

God  to  heed  all  the  words  of  his  wife,  and  the  example 
of  Abraham  was  one  of  which  he  had  never  heard.  He 
refused  to  turn  the  small  Me*tis  adrift. 

It  might  have  been  the  better  for  the  child,  never 
theless,  had  he  done  so,  since  there  resulted  for  him  a 
bad  life.  Madame  O'Hara  was  a  woman  who  had  done 
her  share  of  field  work.  She  had  a  temper  of  which  even 
her  Irish  spouse  stood  in  quaking  fear.  She  could  not 
force  him  to  drive  the  stranger  out,  perhaps,  but  in  all 
things  else  she  had  her  way,  and  it  was  a  cruel  enough 
one.  Antoine  suffered.  He  was  half  starved  and 
thoroughly  beaten.  The  beatings  were  the  scandal  of 
the  neighborhood,  but  Monsieur  Biret,  who  was  then 
the  cure*,  had  never  seen  fit  to  interfere.  He  was  a 
brutal  man  himself,  having  no  aim  in  life  beyond  forc 
ing  money  out  of  his  parishioners.  That  a  half-breed 
should  be  tortured  unjustly  concerned  him  not  at  all. 
Madame  O'Hara  paid  well  and  regularly. 

So  it  went  along  until  Monsieur  Carmel  came  into  the 
village.  Monsieur  Carmel  was  not  at  all  keen  to  get 
money.  He  put  an  end  to  the  abuse  forthwith  shortly 
and  effectually.  "  This  thing  must  stop,"  he  told 
Madame  O'Hara,  when  he  found  Antoine  grovelling  on 
the  ground  in  the  agony  of  a  thrashing  just  ended.  And 
she  stopped  it.  Except  in  matters  pertaining  immedi 
ately  to  religion,  a  cure*  was  not  to  her  habitant  mind  to 
be  paid  much  attention  to.  But  this  one  was  not  merely 
a  cure*,  he  was  a  person  to  be  obeyed. 


ANNE  CAKMEL  123 

Antoine  was  grateful,  grateful  like  a  little  maltreated 
cur  that  lies  at  its  rescuer's  feet  and  cowers,  and  turns 
up  imploring  eyes.  He  never  forgot.  When  O'Hara 
died  he  was  fourteen  years  old,  and  he  left  the  farm  at 
once.  The  legitimate  O'Haras  had  been  sorry  to  see 
him  go.  They  regarded  him  as  their  brother  and  called 
him  so.  He  had  been  a  good  playmate,  inventive  and 
resourceful.  They  had  no  more  marked  objection  to  an 
Indian  for  a  companion  than  had  those  forbears  of  theirs 
whose  governor  danced  war  dances  with  the  savages, 
and  who,  for  the  most  part,  adopted  the  customs  of  the 
red  men  quite  as  often  as  imposed  their  own. 

But  Antoine  left  the  farm  and  went  out  into 
the  world,  and  thereafter  troubled  them  very  little. 
Now  and  then  he  returned  to  St.  Hilaire.  When 
he  concerned  himself  about  it  at  all,  he  acknowl 
edged  that  as  his  home.  For  the  rest  he  was  coureur 
de  bois,  voyageur,  guide,  river  man,  hunter,  sometimes 
in  the  maple  sugar  and  sometimes  in  the  lumber  camps, 
on  rafts  or  snowshoes  often,  in  the  hayfields  or  in  the 
orchards  rarely.  When  he  appeared  in  St.  Hilaire,  if  he 
had  not  been  away  as  long  as  usual,  he  offered  the 
explanation  that  he  had  been  "  pa'la,"  jerking  his  head 
vaguely  north,  south,  east,  or  west.  At  other  times  he 
had  been  "bien  loin,"  and  waved  his  arm  to  indicate 
great  distance.  "  Bien  loin "  might  be  a  hundred 
leagues  or  a  good  deal  more.  Antoine  was  never  sure. 
He  reckoned  his  journeys  by  days ;  and  as  some  days 


124  ANNE   CARMEL 

he  went  at  a  dog  trot  for  the  whole  time,  and  at  others 
travelled  a  couple  of  hours  all  told,  the  measurements 
were  not  accurate.  On  the  very  rare  occasions,  when 
he  became  what  was,  for  him,  communicative,  and 
deigned  to  open  his  beautiful,  sinister  lips  to  speak  cut 
phrases,  he  volunteered  the  fact  that  he  had  been  every 
where  ;  to  the  great  plains  of  the  West  where  his  own 
people,  thanks  to  the  rebel  Kiel,  had  now  their  own 
land;  to  the  Gasp£  peninsula  where  were  the  white 
fishing  stations ;  to  Cape  Breton  and  Hudson  Bay,  across 
the  border  into  the  States,  and  also  to  the  big  cities, 
Montreal,  Quebec,  Ottawa,  Winnipeg.  It  was  possibly 
true,  and  quite  as  possibly  not.  For  he  never  went 
into  details  upon  which  he  could  be  tripped  up.  Never 
theless,  he  was  looked  upon  with  admiration  by  the 
people  of  St.  Hilaire,  who  themselves  did  not  go  in  for 
indiscriminate  and  futile  travelling,  who  stayed  on  their 
farms  and  in  their  shops,  and  attended  to  matters  directly 
at  hand.  They  had,  in  this  century,  no  need  to  be  kept 
down  by  the  old  decrees,  which  forbade  their  scattering 
and  adventurous  antecedents  to  run  the  woods.  If  one 
of  them  nowadays  chanced  to  have  been  so  far  as  the 
River  or  a  few  leagues  into  the  bush,  he  had  a  right  to 
look  upon  himself  as  bold  above  the  ordinary. 

It  was  natural,  therefore,  that  when  Antoine  came 
back  to  the  parish  he  should  be  a  person  of  interest. 
And  he  was  now  newly  returned.  It  was  for  the  pur 
pose  of  attending  to  his  religious  duties.  Sooner  or 


ANNE  CARMEL  125 

later  he  could  always  be  counted  upon  to  come  in  from 
the  great  beyond  to  confess  himself  to  Monsieur  Car- 
mel.  Monsieur  Biret  was  accountable  for  that.  He 
had  been  hated  and  dreaded  by  the  half-breed,  but  he 
had,  in  spite  of  that,  burned  his  own  fanaticism  and 
superstition  into  a  mind  that  took  the  red-hot  brand 
easily,  with  a  predilection  for  the  horrible  equal  to  that 
of  those  Hurons  for  whom  it  had  been,  of  old,  neces 
sary  to  order  holy  pictures  of  hell  tortures  more  than 
commonly  atrocious  in  suggestion. 

So  the  same  day  that  the  three  strangers  had  arrived, 
Antoine  had  come  home  from  "  pa'la  "  with  intent  to 
confess.  It  was  almost  a  year  since  he  had  done  so, 
and  to  that  he  ascribed  several  pieces  of  bad  luck 
which  had  befallen  him,  as  well  as  one  scare  from 
which  he  had  not  recovered  yet,  —  the  appearance  of 
the  ghost  of  a  man,  a  white  man,  whom  he  had  known 
in  a  lumbering  camp  that  winter.  The  man  had 
gambled  with  him  and  lost  the  whole  of  his  winter's 
earnings.  Subsequently  he  had  killed  himself.  An 
toine  had  not  known  of  that  until  he  had  happened 
to  meet  another  friend  who  had  told  him.  And  the 
same  night  the  ghost  had  walked  around  and  around 
him  through  the  trees.  Antoine  preferred  confession 
and  heavy  penance  to  anything  of  that  unpleasant  and 
intangible  sort.  And  that  was  why  he  had  come  back 
to  get  the  matter  off  his  mind. 

At  the  tavern  he  had  met  a  stranger  who  had  wanted 


126  ANNE  CARMEL 

forthwith  to  make  a  picture  of  him.  Antoine  was 
sufficiently  obliging  when  he  was  not  morose.  At  the 
time  Mathew  Thorne  proposed  the  sketch  he  was  in 
a  good  humor.  He  did  not  object  to  keeping  still. 
He  could  do  that  for  a  day  at  a  stretch,  and  hardly 
move  a  muscle,  if  the  mood  was  on  him.  Also,  the 
promise  of  pay  was  tempting.  The  American  himself, 
with  his  pointed  yellow  beard  and  white  hands,  he  did 
not  like  overmuch ;  he  talked  in  a  suspicious  way 
about  things  Antoine  did  not  understand  and  conse 
quently  mistrusted.  "  The  sinful  fascination  of  a 
beautiful  devil  is  yours,"  he  had  said,  considering  the 
Me"tis'  face ;  and  Antoine,  whose  English  was  limited  in 
the  extreme,  had  comprehended  only  the  satam'c  allu 
sion,  and  had  scowled.  Nevertheless,  he  had  promised 
to  come  on  the  following  day. 

He  spent  the  evening  at  the  tavern,  and  then  de 
parted  to  pass  the  night  at  the  cabin  of  Marcelin 
Se"ailles,  in  the  woods.  .Marcelin,  who  lived  with  his 
sister,  was  very  old,  and  remembered  days  that  had 
been  better  for  the  ancestors  of  Antoine's  mother  than 
these  present  ones.  He  had  had  plenty  of  Indian 
friends  himself,  and  could  mumble  gory  stories  that 
the  half-breed  liked  to  listen  to.  Antoine  had  listened 
to  them,  then  gone  off  to  sleep  on  the  floor,  and  in  the 
morning  he  had  left  the  cabin  and  the  clearing  and 
taken  his  way  down  through  the  forest  path  to  the 
village.  It  was  raining,  but  he  did  not  mind  that.  He 


ANNE  CAEMEL  127 

went  to  the  tavern  and  found  Thome  there,  and  settled 
himself  for  the  picture.  It  progressed  to  the  satisfac 
tion  of  every  one  in  the  room,  and  there  were  many, 
since  out-of-door  work  was  impossible. 

Thome  was  interested  in  the  type  of  head  in  front 
of  him,  and  in  the  sketch,  and  for  a  while  he  paid  small 
attention  to  the  comments,  and  less  to  the  patois  chatter 
around  him.  But  presently  he  caught  the  name  of 
Anne  Carmel.  And  he  listened  then.  It  was  not 
spoken  with  respect,  rather  with  a  tone  the  meaning  of 
which  is  the  same  in  all  languages.  So  it  was  this, 
then,  that  accounted  for  a  degree  of  poise  and  sophis 
tication  in  the  Cure's  sister  which  had  seemed  inexpli 
cable  in  a  girl  of  a  backwoods  village.  That  Anne's 
earlier  girlhood  had  been  spent  in  a  large  city  had  not 
even  made  it  clear  to  him.  The  tone  of  the  villagers  did. 

They  left  the  subject  almost  immediately,  however, 
and  he  got  no  detailed  information  until  well  on  into 
the  afternoon,  when  the  sketch  was  finished.  Antoine 
had  taken  his  departure,  and  he  himself  was  sitting  on 
the  porch,  smoking.  A  habitant  more  garrulous  than 
the  others  joined  him,  and  Thome  led  the  subject  around 
to  where  he  wanted  it.  The  habitant  was  nothing 
loath.  He  gave  Anne's  story,  with  embellishments. 
When  he  went  he  left  Thorne  with  the  understanding 
that  the  Cure's  handsome  sister  had  had  more  lovers 
than  only  the  English  hunter.  Thorne  was  interested. 
The  prospect  of  staying  idle  around  St.  Hilaire  for  the 


128  ANNE  CARMEL 

several  days  during  which  his  father  would  be  potter 
ing  with  plants  and  birds  had  not  presented  any 
attractions  to  him  before.  Now  it  did.  One  might 
put  in  one's  time  a  good  deal  worse  than  with  an  un 
commonly  effective  and  intelligent  girl  who  was  not 
averse  to  man's  society. 

He  was  not  sure,  however,  that  he  fancied  Cecily's 
proximity  to  the  girl.  He  was  of  those  males  who 
are  virtuously  insistent  upon  the  virtue  of  all  who 
may  approach  their  own  women  folk  —  excepting  only 
themselves.  He  had  thoughts  of  getting  Cecily  away 
from  the  contamination.  But  he  reconsidered  it. 
To  do  it  he  would  have  to  give  his  reasons.  And 
that  would  mean  the  defeat  of  his  own  ends,  which 
were,  to  be  frequently  at  the  priest's  house.  And 
Cecily,  after  all,  was  a  woman  of  three  and  twenty, 
whose  head  was  filled  with  harmonies,  and  whose  heart 
had  room  for  nothing  but  restless  ambition.  She  was 
entirely  able  to  take  care  of  herself.  Upon  the  whole, 
he  would  keep  his  information  to  himself,  and  act  upon 
it.  To  this  latter  end  he  watched  the  presbytere  gate 
narrowly.  He  saw  Monsieur  Carmel  come  out  and  go 
into  a  house  farther  down  the  street.  Madame  Carmel, 
he  already  knew,  was  away.  If  Cecily  could  be  dis 
posed  of,  the  coast  would  be  clear.  And  his  father 
came  to  his  aid  in  this.  "It  is  clearing,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  going  to  get  your  cousin  for  a  walk.  Will  you 
come?" 


ANNE  CARMEL  129 

Mathew  Thome  leaned  forward  and  flicked  the 
ashes  of  his  cigar  over  the  porch  rail.  Then  he  shook 
his  head  indolently.  It  was  too  muddy,  he  averred. 
"I  will  stay  here  and  improve  my  opportunities  of 
learning  village  life."  His  father  went  without  him, 
and  presently  he  and  Cecily  disappeared  down  the 
road  together. 

Thome  gave  them  time  to  get  well  off.  Then  he 
threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigar  and  went  over  to 
the  presbytere. 

The  habitant  who  had  imparted  the  information 
concerning  Anne  was  leaning  over  a  fence  talking 
with  the  wife  of  a  neighbor,  who  was  feeding  her 
chickens.  He  caught  sight  of  Thorne.  "  Look  !  "  he 
called  attention.  "There  will  be  a  Yankee  now,  as 
well.  The  Cur£  is  too  trustful.  She  is  alone." 

The  sky  was  brightening  in  the  west,  and  its  golden 
shine  was  reflected  in  the  puddles  of  water,  on  the 
flat  stones  of  the  sidewalk,  and  on  the  wet  gravel  of 
the  garden  path.  Thorne  took  note  of  the  values  in 
yellow  produced  by  that  and  by  the  beds  of  jonquils 
and  daffodils.  Then  he  went  up  the  steps. 

Anne  heard  his  knock,  a  running  tapping  of  the 
finger  ends,  unpleasantly  suggestive  of  a  signal.  She 
went  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  She  met  Thome's 
eyes,  and  she  guessed  at  once  that  he  had  heard  the 
gossip  and  why  he  had  come.  Her  face  and  neck 
colored  with  a  deep,  painful  crimson,  and  then  turned 


130  ANNE  CARMEL 

as  painful  a  white.  But  she  could  not  turn  him 
away.  "My  brother  is  not  here,"  she  attempted  it; 
"he  has  gone  to  a  neighbor's." 

Thorne  raised  his  eyebrows  with  a  look  of  comprehen 
sion.  "  I  did  not  come  to  see  your  brother,"  he  said.  She 
put  the  door  wider  then,  and  let  him  go  in.  He  closed 
it  behind  them  and  followed  her  into  the  sitting  room. 

It  was  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before 
he  came  out  again,  and  went  down  the  path  to  the 
gate,  his  own  face  flushed  and  annoyed.  There  was 
only  one  person  in  St.  Hilaire,  himself  included,  whom 
he  was  not  in  the  mood  to  despise ;  and  that  was 
Anne  Carmel. 

As  for  Anne,  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
where  she  had  sprung  to  her  feet,  still  holding  behind 
her  the  hand  he  had  taken.  Her  wide  eyes  did  not 
see  the  window  in  front  of  them,  with  its  vista  of 
young  green  and  of  spring  flowers,  but  only  her  own 
punishment,  coming  slowly  and  steadily  upon  her,  the 
inevitable  punishment  which  she  knew  now,  for  the 
first  time,  she  could  not  escape  —  her  degradation  be 
fore  herself. 

Thorne  did  not  go  back  to  the  presbytSre  that 
evening.  His  father  went,  but  he  himself  stayed 
on  at  the  tavern.  Antoine  was  there  and  in  an 
almost  communicative  humor.  The  habitants  hung 
on  his  few  words.  And  among  the  men  was  Paul 
Tetrault.  Paul  had  been  drinking  of  late  rather 


ANNE  CARMEL  131 

heavily.  He  had  done  so  to-night.  Several  of  the 
others  were  in  the  same  plight.  It  had  taken  treat 
ing  to  get  speech  from  Antoine,  and  the  host's  busi 
ness  had  thriven. 

The  habitant  who  had  talked  to  Thorne  in  the  after 
noon  had  had  his  too  easy  tongue  moved  to  still  further 
loquacity  by  white  whiskey,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
he  had  got  back  to  his  subject  of  earlier  in  the  day  — 
Anne  Carmel.  He  began  to  enlarge  upon  it,  with  leers 
of  understanding  at  Thorne.  Tetrault  had  had  to  hear 
a  good  deal  of  the  same  sort  in  the  past  half-year,  but 
as  yet  nothing  so  abominable  as  this.  He  stood  it  in 
silence  for  a  few  moments,  then  he  turned  to  the  man. 
"Stop  that,"  he  said.  " It  is  a  lie,  and  you  know  it  is." 
The  man  laughed  tipsily,  close  into  the  pink  and 
white  face  with  its  plump  cheeks.  Antoine  watched, 
making  no  offer  to  interfere  as  yet,  merely  moving  to 
a  vantage  point,  leaning  against  the  bar  and  cross 
ing  his  legs  easily.  But  his  look  was  not  pleasant. 
Thorne  saw  that,  and  saw,  moreover,  that  unless  the 
slanderer  could  be  stopped  there  would  be  trouble. 

The  habitant,  with  his  chin  still  pushed  up  under 
young  Tetrault's  nose,  attempted  another  slur.  Thorne 
caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and  jerked  him  away, 
throwing  him  half  across  the  room.  Antoine  took 
note  of  the  fact  that  the  white  hands  he  had  despised 
were  creditably  strong.  The  man  was  too  drunk,  how 
ever,  to  be  warned.  He  turned  on  Thorne  himself 


132  ANNE  CARMEL 

angrily,  with  a  meaning  wink.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you 
went  over  to  the  presbyte"re  as  soon  as  I  told  you  — 
when  they  were  all  away  —  the  others.  You  are  one 
of  her  friends,  too,  perhaps." 

Thome's  doubled  fist  hit  him  full  on  the  mouth,  and 
he  went  down  in  a  heap.  But  whether  or  not  the 
sympathies  of  the  others  were  with  him,  at  least  they 
were  altogether  against  American  interference,  upon 
purely  racial  and  religious  grounds.  They  closed  on 
Thorne,  and  Tetrault  came  to  his  help.  Antoine  still 
waited,  leaning  impassively  against  the  bar. 

There  were  five  habitants  as  against  the  stranger 
and  Tetrault.  And  the  latter  was  of  small  use,  hit 
ting  wildly,  windmill  fashion,  with  swinging  arms. 
Thorne  was  down.  The  five  were  atop  of  him,  yelling 
and  snarling  and  cursing  with  noisy  rage.  They  were 
unarmed,  but  they  were  sinewy  peasants  and  would 
make  short  work  of  the  man.  And  Thorne  had 
championed  some  one  belonging  to  Monsieur  Carmel. 
That  was  his  only  merit  in  Antoine's  eyes,  the  only 
reason  for  going  to  the  rescue.  The  half-breed  went, 
whipping  out  the  knife  he  carried  after  the  fashion  of 
the  earliest  voyageurs. 

Tetrault  was  against  the  wall,  Thorne  was  under 
neath  and  struggling  hard,  and  the  rest  were  surging 
up  and  down,  back  and  forth.  Antoine  was  upon 
them,  his  teeth  shut  and  his  eyes  gleaming. 

Jean  Carmel  saw  it  all  as  he  came  into  the  doorway, 


ANNE  CARMEL  133 

hurrying  from  the  presbytere  with  the  boy  who  had  run 
to  get  him.  They  were  fighting  like  a  pack  of  sledge 
dogs,  as  aimlessly,  and  confusedly,  and  indiscriminately. 
He  crossed  over  and  took  hold  of  Antoine,  wrenching 
the  knife  from  him  with  a  single  twist.  Then  he  caught 
one  man  after  another,  dragged  him  back,  lifted  him, 
and  flung  him  away. 

Thome  got  to  his  feet,  and  Tetrault  slunk  off  into  a 
corner.  The  villagers  started  at  Thorne  again  on  an 
impulse.  One  of  them  was  cut,  and  he  had  an  indistinct 
notion  that  the  American  had  somehow  done  it.  The 
Cure  stepped  in  front  of  Thorne  and  lifted  his  crucifix. 
The  other  hand  held  the  knife  gleaming  against  the 
cassock.  They  fell  back. 

Jean  Carmel  turned  to  Thorne.  "What  is  the 
trouble  ?  "  he  asked,  curt  for  breathlessness.  He  looked 
even  larger  and  more  powerful  than  he  was,  in  the  light 
from  the  one  dull  lamp,  and  the  knife  and  the  crucifix 
made  a  picturesque  enough  contrast.  The  men  cowered 
behind  him,  and  Antoine  stood  impassive  and  inscru 
table  again. 

Thorne  had  his  code.  He  adhered  to  it.  "  It  was  a 
quarrel,"  he  said,  "a  quarrel  between  myself  and  that 
man,"  —  he  pointed  to  the  garrulous  habitant  who  was 
recovering  himself  from  having  been  pitched  half 
over  the  table,  —  "  and  it  did  not  in  any  way  concern 
the  rest  of  them."  The  Cure  accepted  it  that  Thorne  did 
not  care  to  go  into  further  particulars. 


134  ANNE  CAEMEL 

But  Tetrault's  sensibilities  were  not  so  fine.  He 
was  excited,  worked  up  to  the  point  of  hysteria,  and 
filled  with  an  admiration  of  the  American  which  he 
wanted  to  proclaim.  "  I  will  tell  you,  mon  pSre,"  he 
put  in.  And  disregarding  Thome's  quick  look  of 
warning,  he  told.  Jean  Carmel  stood  and  listened,  and 
his  face  set  into  drawn  lines.  He  gave  back  the 
knife  to  Antoine  without  so  much  as  an  admonition. 
Then  he  turned  to  Thorne  again.  "  Thank  you,"  he 
said,  and  held  out  his  hand.  Thorne  took  it  with  as 
much  grace  as  a  conscience  by  no  means  entirely  satis 
fied  would  allow  him  to  muster  up. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MADAME  CARMEL  was  baking  her  own  bread  in  the 
stone  oven  at  the  rear  of  the  house.  It  was  a  duty 
never  left  to.  Amelie  Latouche,  and  madame  adhered 
to  the  custom  of  the  girlhood  she  had  spent  on  a  St. 
Lawrence  farm,  preferring  the  stone  oven  to  any  iron 
one. 

Anne  was  at  the  Gerard  cottage.  Madame  Gerard 
had  been  taken  ill  in  the  night,  the  eldest  daughter  had 
something  very  like  pneumonia,  and  the  grandmother 
was  in  need  of  help.  It  was  her  contention  that  educa 
tion  was  to  blame  directly  for  all  the  ills.  The  child 
had  caught  her  cold  at  school,  and  Marie  Louise's 
failing  health  was  due,  she  took  it,  to  working  from  day 
light  until  after  dark,  and  then  studying  in  the  evening 
so  that  she  often  spelled  words  at  night  in  her  sleep. 
The  grandmother  had  protested,  but  all  in  vain ;  and 
now  that  her  predictions  of  evil  were  justified  she  was 
not  altogether  sorry,  but  she  was  put  to  it  and  needed 
help.  Monsieur  Carmel  had  offered  to  send  Anne,  and 
the  suggestion  had  been  accepted  with  a  sudden  will 
ingness  to  overlook,  under  the  circumstances,  sins 
toward  which  she  was  not  as  a  general  thing  lenient. 

136 


136  ANNE  CARMEL 

Marie  Louise,  out  of  innate  sweetness  of  disposition 
as  well  as  gratitude  to  Monsieur  Carmel,  had  never 
been  severe  upon  Anne  and  had  tried  to  defend  her. 
The  grandmother,  however,  was  of  sterner  stuff  and 
of  the  unforgivingness  which  age  shares  with  hard 
youth. 

Anne  had  accepted  the  situation  without  irony  when 
her  brother  had  told  her.  She  asked  nothing  of  the 
parish,  but  she  was  willing  to  be  of  use.  And  where 
there  were  children  she  was  especially  glad  to  go.  It 
was  only  with  children  who  understood  nothing,  and 
Jean,  who  understood  everything,  that  she  could  feel 
herself  like  any  other  woman,  and  not  some  different 
and  curious  manner  of  creature  to  be  kept  away  from 
and  watched  covertly  and  discussed.  So  she  had  gone 
over  to  the  cottage  early  in  the  morning. 

As  for  Jean  Carmel,  he  was  at  leisure  for  the  first  time 
in  the  thirty-six  hours  since  Cecily  Thorne  had  been  in 
St.  Hilaire.  He  came  out  from  the  church,  into  the  gar 
den  by  the  side  gate,  and  up  to  where  she  sat  upon  the 
porch.  And  presently  Madame  Carmel,  turning  away 
from  the  oven,  caught  sight  of  them  going  up  the  road 
together.  She  watched  them  from  under  the  wide  brim 
of  her  hat,  and  she  was  not  pleased.  Since  the  first  she 
had  looked  with  considerable  disfavor  upon  having  Miss 
Thorne  in  the  presbytere.  Her  nature  was  one  to  take 
kindly  to  the  contention  of  those  prophets,  saints,  and 
doctors  who  have  held  that,  to  the  priest  of  God,  women 


ANNE  CARMEL  137 

must  stand  His  one  created  unclean  thing.  And  she 
had  frequently,  in  the  earlier  days  of  his  orders,  im 
pressed  it  upon  Jean  that  they  were,  for  such  as  he,  a 
lure  to  perdition.  He  had  wearied  of  it  in  the  end 
and  had  protested  with  some  disgust.  "After  all, 
mother,  they  are  human  beings,  too,  I  suppose,"  he 
had  said,  "  and  I  really  cannot  be  always  troubling  to 
remind  myself  that  they  are  women." 

Apparently  he  was  not  troubling  to  remind  himself 
now  that  Miss  Thome  was  a  woman,  since,  in  the  face 
of  all  the  village,  he  was  going  off  with  her  alone.  And 
the  two  nights  before  he  had  talked  to  her  with  no  more 
reserve  than  he  had  used  toward  Mathew  and  the  elder 
Thome. 

Madame  Carmel  went  into  the  house  annoyed.  It 
was  surely  enough  to  have  one's  daughter  the  scorn  of 
the  parish,  but  that  the  Cure,  whom  one  had  the  proud 
right  to  call  one's  son,  should  also  give  occasion  for 
scandal,  was  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience.  Patience, 
she  knew,  would  have  to  be  exercised,  however,  and 
discretion.  She  stood  in  a  good  deal  of  awe  of  Jean, 
and  was  not  anxious  to  remonstrate  with  him  and  meet 
his  astonished  displeasure  at  evil  constructions. 

And  he,  without  the  least  idea  that  he  might  be  in 
curring  such,  kept  on  out  the  road.  "  We  will  go  to 
see  Marcelin  Seailles,"  he  said  to  Cecily  Thome.  "  He 
has  a  little  cabin  in  a  clearing  two  miles  from  here, 
and  he  is  the  oldest  man  in  many  parishes  —  no  one 


138  ANNE  CARMEL 

knows  just  how  old — but  he  talks  of  the  bad  times 
of  the  Loyalist  settlers." 

Anne  had  already  told  her  of  Marcelin,  and  that 
he  was  not  to  be  persuaded  from  the  belief  that  the 
first  Napoleon  still  lived,  and  that  Canada  was  merely 
leased  to  the  British  for  ninety-nine  years.  "The 
Cure  before  Jean,  Monsieur  Biret,  gave  him  that  in 
formation,"  Anne  had  explained.  "  They  are  not  all 
so  honest  as  Jean  —  the  priests,  and  they,  most  of  them, 
will  do  all  they  can  to  keep  the  habitants  French 
and  ignorant." 

Cecily  spoke  of  it  now.  "  Anne  is  not  given  to  mak 
ing  allowances."  He  defended  his  predecessor.  "Mar 
celin  has  been  almost  stone  deaf  for  uncounted  years. 
He  may  have  misunderstood." 

They  went  down  the  road  that  led  to  the  river. 
There  were  fields  on  either  side.  A  group  of  chil 
dren  hung  over  the  stone  wall  of  one  of  them,  watch 
ing  a  farmer  and  his  wife  ploughing  with  a  pair  of 
oxen.  They  saw  the  Cure  coming,  and  scrambled 
down.  There  were  five  of  them,  and  they  all  stood 
waiting,  staring  unabashed  at  the  American  dame 
who  wore  no  hat  on  her  head  —  all  save  Yvonne,  who 
had  been  enjoying  the  prestige  of  previous  acquaint 
ance  with  the  presbytere  guest;  but  in  no  wise  em 
boldened  by  that  now,  had  shrunk  off  against  the  wall, 
and  stood  there,  hanging  her  head  and  twisting  a  bare 
toe  into  the  soil. 


ANNE  CABMEL  139 

The  Cure  stopped  and  spoke  to  them.  They  smiled 
up  into  his  face.  The  boys'  hats  were  in  their  hands, 
and  one  of  them  offered  him  a  bunch  of  meadow-sweet. 
A  little  girl  had  edged  close,  and  was  holding  to  a  fold 
of  the  cassock.  "We  will  give  the  flowers  to  the  de 
moiselle,  will  we  not?"  suggested  Monsieur  Carmel, 
and  held  them  out  to  Cecily. 

It  was  a  day  for  summer  rather  than  for  spring. 
The  sky  was  soft  blue,  drifting  with  misty  clouds. 
There  was  a  warm,  wet  smell  from  the  earth.  The 
meadows  were  yellow  with  long-stemmed  dandelions 
that  billowed  in  the  southwest  breeze.  They  went 
through  a  gap  in  a  fence  where  the  bars  of  a  gate 
were  rotting  away,  and  crossed  a  field.  A  fawn-col 
ored  cow  was  cropping  the  grass  and  violets,  wrin 
kling  her  white  nose  greedily.  She  raised  her  head 
with  a  contemplative  look  in  her  velvety  eyes.  Then 
she  went  on  eating  again,  undisturbed. 

They  came  out  upon  another  road,  hard  and  white 
after  the  rain,  running  between  a  row  of  fringing  red 
maples  on  the  one  side,  and  of  high  poplars  with  their 
delicate  pin-point  tracery  upon  the  other.  A  woman 
stood  at  the  back  of  a  cottage,  feeding  some  ducks  and 
geese  that  waddled  up  from  a  puddle.  She  stooped 
awkwardly,  but  her  red  skirt,  patched  with  big  pieces 
of  newer  stuff,  made  a  good  touch  of  color  against  the 
brown  of  the  earth.  Her  back  was  turned.  Jean 
Carmel  motioned  toward  her.  "  There  is  a  heroine," 


140  ANNE  CARMEL 

he  said  ;  "  not  a  great  one,  perhaps,  but  one  for  a  little 
village.  It  is  Therese  Labiscaye."  And  he  went  on  to 
tell  her  story  as  they  walked. 

There  had  been  a  time,  seven  or  eight  years  before, 
when  Therese  had  had  a  lover,  a  young  workingman, 
the  blacksmith's  assistant.  She  had  had  also,  unfortu 
nately,  an  old  and  infirm  mother,  needing  comforts,  and 
a  sister  married  well  to  a  rich  man  —  as  riches  were 
counted  by  the  farmers  —  and  living  several  parishes 
away  on  the  St.  Lawrence.  The  sister,  having  risen 
from  nothing  to  be  a  person  of  importance,  had  become 
filled  with  pride,  which  was  outraged  at  the  prospect  of 
a  blacksmith's  journalier  for  a  brother-in-law.  And 
Therese  had  been  given  to  understand,  without  pity, 
that  her  choice  must  lie  between  letting  the  lover  go, 
or  having  withdrawn  the  liberal  fifteen  dollars  a  month 
provided  by  the  sister  for  the  old  mother's  ease.  "  The 
mother  wanted  the  comforts,  and  the  blacksmith's  boy 
could  not  have  given  them  to  her,"  he  explained. 
"Therese  obeyed  her  sister,  and  the  journalier  even 
tually  married  some  one  else.  It  must  be  some  com 
fort  to  her  to  know  that  they  are  not  happy  together. 
She  is  good  and  unselfish,  but  she  has  her  human 
points,  I  suppose.  So  you  see  we  can  watch  all  the 
complications  of  more  civilized  life  here  in  the  hills 
on  a  scale  that  is  smaller,  perhaps,  as  to  money  and 
ambitions,  but  quite  as  large  as  to  passions  and  suffer 
ing."  Cecily  made  no  comment.  She  was  wondering 


ANNE   CAEMEL  141 

less  about  the  complications  of  Therese  Labiscaye's 
affairs  than  about  those  of  Anne  Carmel. 

"She  cared  for  him  very  much,"  he  said  directly, 
"  and  it  has  aged  her.  She  is  not  yet  thirty.  There 
are  numbers  of  such  little  tragedies  among  us  here  — 
a  good  many,  of  course,  of  which  nobody  but  the 
priest  ever  hears."  Cecily  looked  back.  Therese 
had  turned  and  seen  them.  She  was  watching  them, 
her  eyes  shaded  by  her  hand. 

"Sometimes,"  said  Jean  Carmel,  "I  have  thought 
that  perhaps  she  did  not  do  what  was  fundamentally 
right  after  all,  in  considering  the  superfluous  comforts 
of  some  one  whose  life  was  almost  done.  In  a  way 
it  was  breaking  the  law  of  God,  without  which  other 
laws  could  hardly  be.  But  then,"  he  stopped  and 
snapped  off  a  thick  branch  that  had  grown  across 
the  path  at  the  height  of  Cecily's  head,  "  but  then,  the 
laws  of  God  do  not  seem  to  be  democratic.  There  is 
one  set  for  the  lower  order  of  intelligences,  and  one 
for  a  higher.  To  love  and  raise  young  is  for  the 
lower.  The  mere  beasts  can  follow  that.  It  takes 
something  finer  to  be  able  to  see  a  duty  and  follow  it 
to  the  bitter  end  —  if  the  end  of  duty  can  ever  be 
really  bitter." 

In  Seailles'  cabin  the  old  pair  made  the  Cure  wel 
come  with  much  toothless  jargon  which  he  appeared 
to  understand,  but  which  was  unintelligible  to  Cecily. 
"  Marcelin  was  once,  they  tell  me,"  Monsieur  Carmel 


142  ANNE  CARMEL 

said,  "as  large  a  man  and  as  strong  as  I  am."  And 
she  looked  at  him  now,  shrunken  and  shrivelled  and 
unsteady,  with  unpleasant  eyes  and  foolishly  mov 
ing  mouth,  come  to  the  old  age  of  those  who  live 
hard  lives.  She  could  not  help  imagining  a  picture 
of  Jean  Carmel  arrived  at  something  of  the  sort. 
And  it  was  depressing.  Moreover,  the  one-room  cabin, 
once  seen,  was  not  attractive  to  remain  in.  Neither 
it  nor  its  occupants  were  clean,  and  Marcelin's  worsted 
toque  had  a  look  and  odor  of  greasy  decay  which  made 
it  anything  but  pleasant  to  have  the  tassel  flicked  in 
one's  face  as  he  pushed  close  in  his  efforts  to  hear. 
She  was  glad  to  get  away. 

They  went  back  by  another  path,  and  came  out  through 
a  stile  on  to  a  grassy  hillside  that  sloped  down  to  the 
river,  glistening  blue  between  the  trunks  of  aspens  and 
birches.  To  the  right  there  was  a  grove  of  firs.  The 
moss  and  turf  gave  under  their  feet,  the  dandelions 
were  rippling  gold,  and  the  small  field  violets,  that  could 
hardly  be  seen,  made  their  color  felt  in  a  faint  purple 
haze.  A  big  oak  was  in  the  midst  of  the  meadow.  The 
dead  leaves  of  the  year  before  were  still  strewed  around 
it,  and  the  new  ones  were  only  just  coming  fairly  out. 
The  sunshine  fell  through  them  on  the  pale  hair  that 
seemed  to  bend  Cecily  Thome's  head  forward  a  little 
with  its  weight.  Monsieur  Carmel  saw  it  as  he  stood 
near  her. 

They   were   in    sight   of   the    village,  in   sound    of 


ANNE  CARMEL  143 

occasional  calling  voices,  and  he  was  not  minded  to  go 
back  to  the  presbytere  at  once.  Out-of-doors  was 
always  to  be  preferred  to  the  house.  He  had  the 
morning  to  himself,  and  he  was  still  not  troubling  to 
remember  that  he  was  with  a  woman.  He  stretched 
himself  out  on  the  grass,  and  the  woman  of  whose  sex 
he  was  so  frankly  unheeding  kept  back  a  smile  at  the 
contrast  between  the  cassock  and  the  attitude  —  not 
exactly  what  one  was  accustomed  to  conceiving  as 
clerical,  but  suggestive  certainly  of  strength  in  repose, 
a  strength  which  might  have  accomplished  in  some 
other  place  a  few  of  the  things  that  cry  aloud  for  the 
quality  —  and  are  frequently  left  unanswered.  A  man 
of  a  different  sort  would  have  served  to  say  mass,  to 
teach  young  Madame  Gerard  reading  and  writing,  and 
to  hear  the  pathetic  little  life  histories  of  such  as 
Therese  Labiscaye.  It  was  much  what  he  himself  had 
thought  two  days  before,  as  he  had  walked  back  from 
the  Lavisse  farm  in  the  late  afternoon. 

Two  tiny  butterflies,  one  white  and  one  the  blue  of 
the  hazy  sky,  were  flickering  about  over  the  dandelions 
and  violets.  She  watched  them  absently,  bending  for 
ward,  with  her  chin  on  her  hand.  And  he  looked  off 
into  the  deep  shadows  among  the  trunks  of  the  fir 
grove.  Now  and  then,  as  they  talked,  he  turned  his 
head  and  met  her  eyes.  They  were  tawny  eyes,  with 
a  somewhat  appealing  look  of  gentleness.  He  had 
noticed  it  already,  and  also  that  it  belied  the  entire  self- 


144  ANNE  CARMEL 

confidence  of  her  nature,  which  was  fully  as  absolute  as 
Anne's  own,  if  more  modified  by  the  habits  of  another 
manner  of  life.  Anne's  girlhood  had  been  spent  for 
the  best  part  in  the  forests ;  Cecily  Thome's  in  the 
great  city  where  she  had  been  born. 

Madame  Carmel  had  set  forth  her  judgment  of  Cecily 
that  same  morning.  "She  is  as  slender  and  frail  to 
look  at  as  one  of  the  jonquils  in  your  garden  —  yet  she 
can  endure  as  much  as  the  two  men,  they  tell  me.  And 
for  all  her  soft  eyes  and  drooping  head  and  slow  voice, 
she  knows  what  she  wants,  and  will  have  it,  too." 

Her  son  had  answered  from  his  own  observations  that 
he  was  not  so  certain  she  would  have  it.  "  I  should  say 
that  she  would  let  it  go  without  much  effort,  and  do 
almost  as  well  with  something  else.  She  must  have 
seen  too  many  sides  of  life  to  think  that  any  one  is 
worth  more  than  all  the  others." 

He  thought  of  it  now,  and  speculated  upon  what  her 
life  had  been  and  was.  She  had  not  told  them  much 
that  was  altogether  personal.  He  knew  that  she  had 
neither  father  nor  mother,  and  had  her  own  livelihood 
to  gain  by  her  singing.  Beyond  that  she  had  not  gone 
into  detail.  She  had  sung  for  Anne,  but  he  himself  had 
not  heard  her. 

Two  men  came  toward  the  field  through  the  fir 
groves.  He  saw  them  while  they  were  still  too  far 
away  to  recognize,  and  pointed  them  out. 

A  robin,  in  a  thorn  bush  close  to  the  oaks,  began  to 


ANNE  CARMEL  145 

trill  loudly.  The  two  men  came  nearer.  They  were 
Antoine  a  O'Hara  and  Cecily's  cousin.  Until  they 
were  within  fifty  feet,  passing  down  to  the  river,  they 
did  not  see  the  others  under  the  big  tree.  Then 
Thome  looked  up,  hesitated  perceptibly,  raised  his  cap, 
spoke,  and  kept  on. 

The  song  of  the  robin  stopped  abruptly.  It  was 
frightened  and,  dropping  to  the  grass,  hopped  away. 
In  the  sudden  silence  Thorite's  voice  came  distinctly, 
thrown  out  from  under  the  roof  of  thick  green  and  the 
aisles  of  trunks.  He  was  making  to  Antoine  a  com 
ment  which  brought  a  look  in  no  wise  gentle  into 
Cecily's  eyes.  Jean  Carmel  stiffened  visibly  in  every 
limb.  But  except  for  that  he  gave  no  sign.  Not  the 
shadow  of  a  change  came  over  his  face.  Yet  if  he  had 
not  troubled  to  remind  himself  that  he  was  with  a 
woman,  Thorne,  at  least,  —  judging  after  his  kind,  — 
had  most  effectually  done  it.  He  reached  out  for  a 
dead  leaf,  weather-worn  to  the  lacework  of  the  veins, 
and  twirled  it  between  his  fingers. 

"That  beautiful  Antoine,  there,  is  a  dangerous 
creature,"  he  said  imperturbably.  "  My  influence  over 
him  does  not  extend  much  beyond  the  bounds  of  the 
parish,  and  not  always  to  there.  Last  night,  for  in 
stance.  He  might  have  done  some  more  serious  dam 
age  with  his  knife.  But  fortunately  there  was  only 
one  severe  cut.  You  can  never  tell  when  the  sleeping 
savage  will  rouse  itself  in  the  breed." 


146  ANNE  CAEMEL 

She  remembered  Mathew  Thome's  description  of  the 
Cure,  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  ill-lighted  tavern 
room,  the  men  he  had  tossed  about  with  such  small 
apparent  effort  slinking  away  from  him,  the  crucifix 
lifted  in  one  hand  and  the  knife  he  had  wrenched 
from  the  Metis'  sinewy  grasp  gleaming  in  the  other. 

He  was  a  man  whom  men  respected — was  he  also, 
she  wondered  as  to  it  now  for  the  first  time,  a  man 
whom  women  loved  ?  There  were  many  little  tragedies 
here  in  this  parish  among  the  hills,  he  had  said,  and 
many  of  which  no  one  but  the  priest  ever  knew. 

Had  any  woman,  kneeling  in  the  cold,  quiet  aisles  of 
the  little  stone  church,  ever  pressed  together,  as  if  in 
prayer,  fingers  that  in  her  thoughts  were  touching  the 
brown  hair  of  the  head  bent  before  the  altar  ?  Had  it 
ever  seemed  to  one  of  them,  whispering  in  the  confes 
sional,  that  the  very  force  of  her  longing  must  do  away 
with  the  barrier  between  her  and  the  dark  form 
so  near  that  the  humanity  of  it  made  things  of  the 
spirit  impossible,  made  her  whole  being  grope,  not  for 
support  of  the  Everlasting  Arms,  but  for  the  mere 
mortal  ones  that  could  hold  her  close  and  give  her  the 
rest  here  for  which  she  would  forego  without  a  regret 
all  of  eternity's  cold  peace  ?  And  had  the  fingers  ever 
been  laid  on  the  brown  hair,  or  the  barrier  ever  given 
way? 

She  would  have  had  the  answer  if  she  could  have 
known  his  thoughts,  as  he  sat  late  that  night  in  front 


ANNE  CARMEL  147 

of  the  big  chimney  place,  alone,  leaning  forward,  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  a  closed  book  in  his  hands, 
looking  into  the  hot  coals  which  had  kept  the  shape 
of  the  branches  to  the  last,  glowing  and  pulsing  to 
the  heart,  falling  apart  now  without  a  sound,  and 
turning  slowly  ashen  and  gray. 

It  was  more  than  five  years  since  any  woman  had 
come  into  Jean  Carmel's  life,  even  upon  the  mere 
neutral  territory  of  the  things  of  the  intellect  where 
Cecily  Thorne  stood  to-day.  But  there  had  been  a 
time  before  that,  which  he  had  small  satisfaction  in  re 
calling.  He  was  the  son  of  men  and  women  who  for 
generations  —  since  the  Conquest  at  any  rate  —  had 
observed  the  church's  precepts  of  morality  sufficiently 
well,  but  who  had  married  early,  following  the  policy 
which  has  caused  the  doubling  of  their  race  once  in 
every  third  of  a  century.  Through  much  of  his 
manhood,  too,  he  had  lived  away  from  centres  of 
civilization,  from  cities,  which  may  have  their  en 
ticements  and  opportunities,  but  have  also  their 
counterbalancing  distractions  and  interests,  their  many 
appeals  to  the  intellectual,  ambitious,  and  striving  side 
of  a  man's  nature.  By  his  calling  itself  he  was  led 
into  the  way  of  much  temptation,  inevitably,  to  a 
far  greater  extent  than  most  men,  and  yet  with  far 
fewer  means  of  withdrawal.  And  he  was,  moreover, 
in  no  wise  oblivious  to  existing  conditions  within  the 
hierarchy,  patent  to  almost  the  least  keen,  most  un- 


148  ANNE  CARMEL 

suspecting  observer,  in  some  of  the  back  country 
parishes,  though  less  obvious  in  the  more  populous 
ones.  Priest's  farms  were  institutions  whose  purposes 
he  had  no  choice  but  to  understand.  So  the  breaking 
of  his  vows  was  not  only  all  but  forced  on  him  by  the 
past  and  present,  but  facilitated,  too,  for  any  future 
that  might  result.  And,  nevertheless,  he  had  not 
broken  them. 

It  was  only  the  first  of  the  victories  over  himself 
that  had  cost  him  any  lasting  pain.  In  the  year  of 
freedom  before  he  had  taken  his  parish  at  St.  Hilaire, 
or  any  other,  he  had  turned  aside  from  the  routes  of 
shrines,  cathedrals,  and  holy  spots,  into  Picardie,  drawn 
there  by  the  interest  which  the  story  of  Marguerite  de 
Roberval  had  always  held  for  him,  and  by  the  traditions 
that  it  was  the  starting-place  of  the  family  of  Carmel. 
He  had  been  a  guest  on  a  farm  belonging  to  the 
brother  of  a  priest  he  knew  well  at  home.  The  man  had 
had  a  daughter,  and  the  parting  from  her  at  the  end  of 
a  short  fortnight  had  been  the  one  bitter  ordeal  of  Jean 
Carmel's  life.  He  had  not  been  blameless  there,  he  had 
met  her  more  than  halfway.  Yet  he  had  never  been  able 
to  feel  any  shame  for  that  brief  idyl  among  the  willow 
lanes  of  Picardie,  and  there  had  been  much  more  of  good 
than  of  evil  in  what  he  had  felt.  He  had  loved  her. 

But  he  had  not  loved  the  wife  of  Tetrault's  eld 
est  son,  though  she  had  left  no  device  untried  to 
pull  him  down  to  her  level,  which  was  a  low  one. 


ANNE  CAEMEL  149 

That  struggle  had  been  short  and  quickly  over,  when 
at  the  last  she  had  brought  it  on.  She  had  never 
forgiven  him  for  conquering  himself  and  her.  Her 
dangerous  love  had  turned  to  a  hatred  of  which  she 
still  made  little  secret. 

And  as  for  Lavisse's  child  —  when  he  had  seen  her 
eyes  close  at  the  last,  it  had  been  with  only  the  regret 
which  one  must  of  necessity  feel  over  the  sad  ending  of 
a  life  for  the  hopelessness  of  which  one  has  been  unwill 
ingly  responsible.  He  did  not  wish  that  the  eyes 
might  shine  again  with  the  light  he  had  seen  in  them 
too  often  when  she  had  made  pretexts  to  find  him  alone 
in  the  sacristy  or  the  church,  or  even  in  the  woods.  He 
had  never  helped  her  to  the  planned  meetings,  and  he 
had  not  realized  that  they  were  such  until  the  day 
when  she  had  forced  the  knowledge  on  him  in  despair 
ing  passion.  Then  he  had  put  a  stop  to  them,  for  once 
and  all,  as  kindly  as  he  could.  She  had  not  made  it 
easy  for  him.  It  had  been  his  saving,  perhaps,  that  she 
was  more  innocent  than  the  other  woman, — without  a 
wife's  recklessness.  He  had  watched  the  agony  of  a 
breaking  heart,  and  he  did  not  care  to  go  through  any 
thing  of  the  sort  again. 

She  had  not  died,  after  so  many  intervening  years, 
for  love  of  him  —  merely  still  loving  him,  which  left 
him  no  just  cause  for  self-reproach.  Yet  he  knew  that 
he  had  been  in  a  large  measure  at  fault,  by  reason 
precisely  of  an  obliviousness  almost  culpable. 


150  ANNE  CARMEL 

He  would  have  been  glad  to  have  had  none  of  all 
this  to  remember  as  he  sat,  bending  forward,  his  brows 
drawn  together,  looking  into  the  fire  which  had  become 
nearly  ashes.  So  far  as  the  recurrence  of  such  episodes 
was  concerned,  the  fires  of  that  period  of  his  youth  were 
practically  ashes  now,  too,  he  believed.  Five  years  ago 
the  suggestion  behind  Thome's  comment  to  Antoine 
might  have  had  truth  in  it.  It  had  not,  at  present,  and 
never  would  have  again.  For  Cecily  Thorne,  coming 
into  his  life  during  a  bare  three  days  and  going  back 
again  to  totally  different  conditions,  there  was  none  of 
that  which  he  had  felt  for  the  others.  She  represented  to 
him  to  a  certain  extent  the  things  he  had  wished  for  on 
the  afternoon  he  had  envied  the  farm  laborer's  contented 
dulness.  That  was  all.  When  she  should  be  gone,  he 
might  possibly  wish  again  for  those  —  but  not  for  her 
self. 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  slowly,  stood 
up  and  laid  his  book  on  the  table.  Then  he  went  for 
the  mattress  and  laid  it  down  in  front  of  the  hearth. 
It  was  not  long  before  he  had  blown  out  the  candle 
and  was  asleep,  with  Pilote  curled  on  the  rug  at  his 
feet. 

In  the  morning  he  went  out  into  the  garden  on 
his  way  to  church  for  the  seven  o'clock  mass  and  a 
wedding  in  exceedingly  humble  life.  For  the  first  time 
he  heard  Cecily  Thorne  singing.  He  stood,  trowel 
in  hand,  listening.  She  was  singing  to  herself  as  she 


ANNE  CARMBL  151 

moved  around  in  her  room,  it  seemed.  She  had  told 
him  that  she  did  it  as  others  talked  to  themselves, 
that  it  was  the  expression  of  her  thoughts  when  she 
was  alone.  The  voice  was  mellow  and  low  pitched. 
He  could  not  catch  the  words,  because  of  the  trilling 
of  a  bird  in  one  of  the  maples.  But  they  seemed  to 
echo  somewhere  back  into  his  memory.  The  song 
was  still  in  his  ears  as  he  crossed  the  garden  and 
went  out  through  the  side  gate  into  the  churchyard. 
To  what  thoughts  had  she  been  giving  expression 
this  time,  he  wondered. 

Four  people  of  interest  to  the  entire  parish  went 
out  of  St.  Hilaire  a  little  later  in  the  morning.  One 
of  them  was  Antoine  a  O'Hara,  following  the  same 
impulse  that  sends  the  bear  lumbering  off  through 
the  forest,  the  wolf  swinging  away  across  the  flat, 
the  buffalo  wandering  over  the  prairies.  The  three 
others  were  the  two  Thornes  and  Cecily,  who  had 
walked  down  the  highroad  which  led  to  the  railway, 
the  charette  carrying  their  bags  bumping  along  a 
few  hundred  yards  in  advance.  All  the  village  had 
been  out  to  see  the  departure,  even  to  Yvonne,  who 
hid  behind  a  corner  of  a  fence  with  her  head  hanging 
and  her  small  tongue  thrust  into  her  cheek,  though 
there  was  no  one  to  see  her. 

Anne  had  stood  with  her  brother  by  the  gate,  then 
she  had  gone  up  with  him  to  the  beds  of  early  flowers 
and  watched  him  working  with  some  pansy  seedlings. 


152  ANNE   CARMEL 

"I  told  Miss  Thome  about  myself,"  she  said 
directly. 

"Yes,"  he  queried,   "why?" 

"Because  I  had  reason  to  know  that  her  cousin 
had  heard.  I  was  sure  he  would  tell  her  —  and  I 
wanted  her  to  have  the  truth,  at  least."  On  the  whole 
he  approved.  "  She  will  not  be  back  again,"  Anne 
went  on. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  suggested,  "  the  stillness  of  our  hills 
is  too  deep  for  her,  and  the  air  from  hundreds  of 
miles  of  timber  and  thousands  of  the  Barrens  and  the 
Unknown  is  too  rare.  She  was  born  to  a  city." 

"  And  she  is  to  be  married,"  Anne  added.  "  Did 
she  tell  you  of  it?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said  absently.  He 
was  thinking  —  not  of  Cecily  Thorne  but  of  himself. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MONSIEUR  CARMEL  had  a  class  of  little  boys  whom 
he  was  preparing  for  their  first  communion.  He  did 
his  best  to  inculcate  some  even  slightly  intelligent  idea 
of  the  mysteries  and  meanings  of  the  faith,  but  it  was 
wearing  and,  at  times,  seemingly  profitless  work.  Now 
and  then  he  gave  them  a  recess,  taking  into  considera 
tion  not  only  their  souls,  but  also  their  restless,  wrig 
gling  bodies,  with  heads  that  turned  and  hands  that 
strayed,  and  feet  that  crossed  and  uncrossed  and 
swung  and  sometimes  kicked. 

Just  at  present  it  had  occurred  to  him  as  rather  a 
pity  to  keep  them  within  doors  on  so  fine  an  early  sum 
mer  afternoon,  when  their  minds  were  visibly  wan 
dering  far  afield  anyway.  So  he  finished  his  little 
discourse  as  quickly  as  he  could.  Then  he  proposed 
a  walk.  Would  they  like  to  go  ?  Ah !  voui,  mon  pSre, 
they  would  like  to  go.  Then  let  them  wait  a  few 
moments  until  he  should  return.  It  was,  "Bien,  mon 
pe"re,"  in  chorus,  and  he  went  out  of  the  room.  The 
sound  of  many  voices,  raised  and  freed  from  restraint, 
followed  him,  also  that  of  scuffling.  It  subsided  abruptly 
when  he  came  back  carrying  a  big  wooden  bowl  full 

153 


154  ANNE  CARMEL 

of  squares  of  bread  and  pieces  of  maple  sugar.  They 
strained  up  their  chins  eagerly.  "  That  is  for  us  others, 
M'sieu'  le  Cure*?"  they  asked.  It  appeared  that  it 
was,  and  M'sieu'  le  Cure*  distributed  it.  But  it  was 
not  to  be  eaten  now.  It  was  to  be  put  in  pockets  and 
saved.  There  were  a  few  furtive  licks  at  the  sugar, 
but  it  went  into  the  pockets  almost  immediately.  The 
boy  who  was  disobedient  might  be  sent  home  and  not 
allowed  to  go  for  the  walk,  which  would  be  not  only 
a  deprivation  but  a  disgrace. 

On  the  street  as  they  formed  into  line,  the  post 
mistress  came  across,  bringing  two  letters  for  Monsieur 
Carmel.  The  biweekly  mail  was  just  in.  One  en 
velope  was  white  and  typewritten  as  to  address,  the 
other  was  gray-blue,  and  the  superscription  was  femi 
nine.  They  were  from  his  grandfather  and  Cecily 
Thorne.  He  knew  it  without  opening  them,  and  put 
them  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  marshalled  the  boys 
and  started,  two  by  two,  himself  holding  the  hand  of 
the  best-conduct  boy  —  for  the  time  being  also  the 
most  proud.  The  boys  began  to  whistle.  It  was  an 
accomplishment  in  which  they  did  not  excel,  but 
which  they  had  picked  up  from  a  comrade  who  had 
"gone  up  into  the  States"  with  his  parents,  and  re 
turned.  The  notes  were  of  the  breathy  quality,  usually 
feminine.  The  Cur6  asked  them  the  name  of  the  song. 
The  plus  sage,  whose  hand  he  held,  unpuckered  his 
lips  momentarily  and  told  him.  It  was  "  Appel  Blow- 


ANNE  CARMEL  155 

soms,"  an  American  song.  Etienne  CoppeVs  father 
played  it  on  the  fiddle. 

They  went  on  for  a  little  while,  crossing  a  pasture 
and  going  through  a  fir  grove  into  a  meadow,  in  the 
centre  of  which  grew  a  big  oak.  Monsieur  took  his 
place  under  the  tree.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
been  back  here  since  the  day  he  had  come  with  Cecily. 
There  were  still  some  few  violets,  and  the  wild  azalea 
was  in  clumps  of  purple-pink.  The  gold  of  the  butter 
cups  was  coming  to  replace  that  of  the  dandelions,  and 
the  fluffy  sweetness  of  the  wild  cherry  the  graceful 
sprays  of  the  moose  berry.  The  woods  themselves 
were  a  sunny  thicket  of  green,  sombre  and  light,  with 
the  slender  birches  glistening,  and  the  cherry  bark  bur 
nished  red.  The  leafage  had  not  its  full  denseness 
yet,  but  it  was  much  thicker  than  it  had  been  three 
weeks  before. 

The  boys  had  scattered  at  once  and  the  Cure  took 
the  letters  from  his  pocket.  His  grandfather's  he 
opened  first.  Lawrence  Dollard  was  a  Canadian  who 
had  emigrated  to  the  States,  following  the  way  of 
some  two-thirds  of  his  people.  He  had  prospered 
exceedingly  in  Massachusetts,  and  was  the  owner  of 
considerable  manufacturing  interests.  Once  a  year 
he  wrote  to  his  grandson  with  the  utmost  regularity 
and  persistency — traits  which  had  helped  him  to  his 
success.  The  letter  was  always  short  and  friendly, 
containing  precisely  the  same  thing,  —  the  assurance 


156  ANNE  CAEMEL 

that  Jean  was  too  good  for  the  fate  to  which  the 
priesthood  condemned  him,  that  he  should  take  his 
place  as  a  man  in  a  world  of  men.  Dollard  had  fallen 
away  from  the  church  of  his  youth,  and  been  touched 
with  liberal  and  heretical  views.  But  he  believed  in 
a  Personal  Providence,  and  was  of  the  opinion  that 
Jean  was  defeating  its  ends  in  being  a  priest.  He 
was  eighty  years  old,  and  had  lived  in  the  States  forty 
years,  long  enough  to  have  imbibed  the  commercial 
and  progressive  spirit.  With  faith  in  the  efficacy  of 
dropping  water  he  regularly  went  over  the  case,  and 
invariably  offered  his  favorite  grandson  a  worldly 
position  by  no  means  to  be  despised,  at  any  time  that 
the  priesthood  should  be  abandoned.  Jean  Carmel 
knew  the  arguments  and  the  offer  of  old.  They  made 
no  impression  upon  him.  He  put  the  letter  back  in 
its  envelope  and  opened  the  gray-blue  one. 

Cecily  had  written  at  some  length.  When  she 
had  left  St.  Hilaire,  he  had  suggested  to  her  that  she 
might  have,  from  time  to  time,  inclination  and  leisure 
to  remember  a  humble  cure  de  village,  who  had  few 
interests  connecting  him  with  the  stirring,  active 
world  outside  the  reclusion  of  the  church. 

He  read  what  she  had  to  say  of  her  life  in  the  city 
where  the  wealth  and  effort  and  success  of  a  great 
nation  converged.  Then  he  leaned  back  against  the 
tree,  looking  down  to  where  the  sunshine  glinted  on 
the  river  ripples,  thinking  desultorily. 


ANNE  CARMEL  157 

He  was  recalled  to  the  thing  at  hand.  Two  boys 
had  come  running  toward  him  and  fallen  at  his  feet, 
grappling,  righting,  and  kicking.  He  stopped  them. 
The  boy  who  was  uppermost  hesitated,  the  one  who 
was  down  waited  with  his  fist  lifted. 

" '  But  I  say  unto  you,' "  quoted  Jean  Carmel, 
steadily,  '"that  whosoever  is  angry  with  his  brother 
without  a  cause  shall  be  in  danger  of  the  judgment.' " 

It  was  not  that  they  gave  much  heed  to  these  echo 
ing  notes  of  that  first  sonorous  trumpet  challenge  of 
Peace,  pealed  from  the  mountain  side  of  Galilee.  It 
was  the  Curb's  eye  that  held  them.  They  moved 
and  drew  apart,  but  with  reluctance.  "  It  is  not  with 
out  a  cause,  mon  pere,"  and  he  listened  to  the  story 
of  the  squabble,  the  theft  of  a  piece  of  maple  sugar 
from  a  pocket,  with  criminations  and  recriminations, 
accusations  and  denials,  that  waxed  heated  and  noisy 
again.  He  heard  it  all  through  with  patience  and 
attention ;  then  followed  out  the  policy  he  had  always 
kept  to  with  his  flock,  a  policy  they  had  not  hitherto 
been  acquainted  with,  even  theoretically,  and  which 
they  by  no  means  understood.  He  put  the  accused 
upon  his  honor.  Etienne  must  take  thought  of  all 
the  consequences  —  and  he  showed  them  to  him,  moral 
and  material  —  then  he  must  speak  the  truth.  There 
was  a  pause.  Batiste's  breath  was  suspended.  The 
Cur6  watched  them  both. 

"I  did   not  take   it,"  repeated   Etienne. 


158  ANNE  CABMEL 

Batiste  saw  his  sugar  gone,  himself  reduced  to  dry 
bread.  "  Liar !  "  he  denounced,  "  liar !  Ah  !  m'sieu', 
make  him  show  you  his  pockets,  the  coup-choux," 
he  implored. 

But  Jean  Carmel's  way  was  otherwise.  "He  will 
do  as  his  conscience  tells  him  to.  If  he  has  some 
reason  for  not  wishing  to  prove  his  words  —  it  is  for 
him  to  decide.  And  you  must  eat  your  dry  bread, 
my  son.  Dry  bread  with  a  good  conscience  is  sweeter 
than  maple  sugar  with  an  uneasy  one." 

Batiste  did  not  in  the  least  subscribe  to  any  such 
abstruse  code  of  ethics.  He  turned  sharply  away, 
hot  with  the  sense  of  injustice.  He  was  absolutely 
sure  that  Etienne  had  the  sugar.  So,  for  that  matter, 
was  the  Curd.  Etienne  lingered.  "  I  will  give  him 
my  own  piece,"  he  ventured,  without  any  especial 
enthusiasm  however. 

The  Cure  was  not  affected  by  this  movement  of 
uncalled-for  generosity.  "  There  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  do  that,"  he  said,  "if  you  have  not  taken 
his.  You  must  do  what  you  know  to  be  right. 
I  have  no  need  to  tell  you  what  that  is." 

Etienne  waited  a  little  longer.  Then  he  also  turned 
and  walked  away  slowly. 

The  eventual  outcome  of  it  was  that  the  piece 
of  maple  sugar  was  given  back  and  that  no  one  was 
deprived  when  all  the  boys  sat  down  upon  the  grass, 
and,  regardless  of  black  gnats  and  mosquitoes,  ate 


ANNE  CAEMEL  159 

their  shares,  while  Monsieur  Carmel  told  them  the 
story  of  the  martyrdom  of  Jean  Brdbosuf. 

It  was  a  signal  triumph  of  virtue  and  principles, 
but  a  line  from  his  grandfather's  letter  came  back 
to  Jean  Carmel  as  he  sat  and  watched  the  boys  go 
off  again  to  hunt  for  columbine  by  the  river  shore. 
"  Leave  it  to  some  one  who  is  not  fitted  for  larger 
things  to  nurse  the  consciences  of  women  and  chil 
dren." 

He  went  back  into  the  village  in  the  midst  of  his 
class  of  barefoot,  ragged  boys.  Two  of  them  held 
his  hands  now,  swinging  his  arms  as  they  almost 
ran  beside  him  in  their  efforts  to  keep  up  with  his 
steps.  One  of  them  was  the  good-conduct  member, 
the  other  the  sinner  over  whose  repentance  there 
was  much  joy  —  Etienne.  He  was  conscious  that 
the  sense  of  virtue  was  in  reality  sweeter  than  maple 
sugar,  and  was  perfectly  willing  to  talk  about  his 
own  righteousness,  having  as  yet  by  no  means  reached 
the  abstraction  of  desiring  no  reward  of  men.  He 
called  attention  several  times  to  his  peculiar  merito- 
riousness,  admiring  the  beauty  of  his  act  of  restitution 
almost  impartially.  Now,  as  the  Cure*  stopped  in 
front  of  the  presbytSre  and  the  other  boys  raised 
their  hats,  he  made  mention  of  it  again,  pulling  at 
the  large  hand  he  held  in  both  his  own.  "  I  did 
well,  did  I  not,  mon  pSre,  —  even  when  he  called  me 
liar  and  coup-choux  ?  The  Good  God  will  love  me  ?  " 


160  ANNE  CARMEL 

It  is  fortunate,  perhaps,  that  for  most  of  us  the 
satisfaction  of  repentance  effaces  the  very  repentance 
itself,  that  we  are  generally  much  more  pleased 
with  ourselves  for  regretting  a  sin  than  we  are 
grieved  by  the  regret.  The  Cure*  knew  the  state 
of  mind  and  soul  of  his  young  parishioner.  He 
had  had  occasion  to  observe  it  in  older  ones.  It 
did  not  do  to  require  a  virtue  above  his  comprehension 
of  either  man  or  child. 

The  good-conduct  boy  had  a  bunch  of  buttercups  and 
columbine  for  Madame  Carmel,  Etienne  some  sprays 
of  tamarac  for  the  washing  of  wounds.  Madame  and 
Anne  were  sitting  in  the  garden  beside  the  house 
under  the  apple  tree.  The  boys  went  up  with  the 
Cure.  They  would  have  found  it  easier  to  give  the 
things  to  Anne.  Madame  inspired  them  with  awe, 
much  as  she  did  Yvonne  Armaille*.  When  she  smiled, 
they  were  hardly  encouraged.  There  are  smiles  which 
are  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  falling  athwart  a  deep  and 
shadowy  gorge.  It  may  light  up  the  gloom,  but  only 
to  show  the  depth  more  appalling.  They  twisted  their 
old  straw  hats,  —  from  one  of  which  a  cow  had  bitten 
half  the  brim,  —  scratched  their  bare  legs,  first  with  one 
set  of  toes  then  with  the  other,  and  answered  some 
kindly  meant  questions.  Then  they  said  good-by  and 
went  off  at  a  run,  calling  to  another  boy  to  wait  for 
them  with  a  loud  Holla ! 

Madame   Carmel  was  knitting,   and  the  bunch  of 


ANNE  CARMKL  161 

flowers  lay  on  her  lap  against  the  black  gown.  Her 
son  stopped  before  her,  took  one  of  the  busy  hands 
and  lifted  it  to  his  lips.  She  drew  it  away  with  a 
smile  and  went  on  knitting.  "  You  should  have  been 
an  abbe  of  the  old  regime,  patronized  by  some  fair 
marquise,"  she  said. 

He  disclaimed  it  as  not  to  his  taste. 

"A  militant  cardinal,"  suggested  Anne,  with  a  glance 
at  his  stalwart  size. 

"  The  flesh  profiteth  nothing  much  in  those  matters," 
he  told  her.  "It  was  a  priest  who  had  to  be  carried 
on  a  sick-litter  who  subdued  the  City  of  the  Waters 
and  vanquished  Cinq-Mars.  No,"  he  finished,  "  I  am 
where  I  belong,  'nursing  the  consciences  of  women 
and  children.' "  He  took  out  the  two  letters  and  gave 
them  to  be  read. 

Madame  Carmel  went  into  the  house  presently,  tak 
ing  the  flowers  and  branches.  Anne  was  mending  a 
pile  of  surplices.  She  sewed  on,  and  Jean  sat  -absently 
watching  a  swallow  that  flitted  back  and  forth  to  its 
nest  under  the  eaves.  A  vesper  sparrow  began  its 
song  in  the  tree  overhead.  His  lines  were  fallen  unto 
him  in  pleasant  places,  the  Cure  reflected.  But  the 
life  was  too  easy.  Other  priests  had  spent  theirs 
better,  —  those  bold  brothers  of  the  mild  saint  of  Assisi 
who  had  pressed  into  the  West,  carrying  the  cruci 
fix  and  preaching  a  peace  which  was  not  in  their 
own  souls ;  or  the  black-robed  followers  of  Loyola. 


162  ANNE  CAKMEL 

As  St.  Francis  himself  had,  on  his  mountain  side, 
desired  the  five  wounds  of  our  Lord,  almost  so  the 
Cure  of  the  village  among  the  forests  that  had  wit 
nessed  martyrdom  coveted  some  such  ordeals  as  those 
men  had  undergone  who  had  made  straight  his  own 
way  —  straight  and  too  smooth. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

AFTER  the  manner  of  the  savage  who  beats  off  evil 
spirits  with  noises  and  the  pounding  of  drums,  women, 
as  a  rule,  seek  oblivion  in  much  companionship.  But 
some  few  turn  to  work  and  try  to  drive  back  men 
acing  Fate  by  flinging  actions  in  her  face.  Anne 
Carmel's  was  the  latter  method  —  and  in  any  event 
there  had  never  been  any  real  companionship  for  her 
in  St.  Hilaire,  even  before  she  had  debarred  herself 
from  such  as  offered.  So  she  made  the  most  of  any 
duties  she  could  find  or  invent  about  the  house,  the 
church,  and  the  parish  in  general.  They  grew  the 
more  numerous,  too,  as  Madame  Carmel's  health,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  began  to  fail  markedly.  The 
bread-baking  and  the  preparing  of  preserves  from 
their  own  berry  vines,  the  sewing  and  knitting,  took 
some  little  time.  For  the  rest  she  worked  at  yards 
of  lace  crocheting,  quilting,  and  rag  rug-plaiting,  for 
which  there  was  no  need.  Cecile  Gerard  profited  by 
several  tiny  frocks  made  over  from  old  ones  of  Anne's 
or  madame's.  And  on  occasions  the  women  on  out 
lying  farms  were  glad  to  get  the  Cure's  sister  in 
emergencies. 

163 


164  ANNE  CAKMEL 

Jean  Carmel,  with  the  masculine  faith  in  feminine 
sincerity,  concluded  that  she  was  forgetting  Harnett 
and  his  evil  influence.  He  knew  nothing  further 
about  it  than  that  she  was  still  receiving  letters. 
They  had  not  talked  of  the  matter  in  months.  He 
decided,  however,  that  he  had  been  right  in  suppos 
ing  that  the  man  would  not  return  to  follow  up  his 
passing  sylvan  courtship.  And  Anne  was  apparently 
coming  back,  at  length,  to  a  normal  interest  in  the 
life  about  her.  It  was  long  before  he  made  even  the 
most  distant  reference  to  it,  but  toward  the  close  of 
the  summer  he  found  her  in  the  street  in  front  of 
the  house,  helping  amid  delighted  laughter  to  get 
Yvonne's  collie  harnessed  to  a  small  wooden  sled. 
She  did  not  see  him  coming,  and  as  he  passed  he 
stooped  down  and  rumpled  her  hair  with  his  hand 
as  he  had  done  when  she  was  a  child  —  always  the 
surest  way  of  rousing  her  indignation  in  those  days. 
"  You  are  gay,  eh,  P'tite  Chose  ? "  he  said.  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile,  a  smile  that  did  not 
seem  altogether  spontaneous,  however.  To  have  let 
him  guess  that  her  love  or  her  fears  for  Harnett's 
life  were  overmastering  her  had  been  one  thing.  To 
have  him  suspect  that  she  was  beginning  to  doubt 
was  another.  She  had  borne  all  manner  of  humilia 
tions  up  to  now,  save  that  one  most  unendurable  to 
a  proud  woman,  —  having  to  confess  that  the  man  for 
whom  she  has  been  ready  to  give  everything  has  not 


ANNE  CARMEL  165 

been  worthy  the  sacrifice.  And  she  had  not  yet 
admitted  it  fully  to  herself. 

But  her  powers  of  justification  were  being  well 
tested.  Harnett  had  written  to  her  regularly,  though 
at  considerable  intervals,  even  before  he  had  been  able 
to  leave  the  hospital.  But  the  letters  were  shorter 
than  at  first,  and,  it  seemed  to  her,  not  a  little  per 
functory.  Then  he  had  gone  home  to  England,  and 
she  had  expected  some  immediate  result.  His  uncle 
was  already  before  him.  He  had  promised  to  ask  at 
once  for  permission  to  marry  her,  and  in  the  event  of 
either  assent  or  refusal  to  return  for  her  before  the 
winter  should  set  in  and  make  travel  around  St. 
Hilaire  all  but  impracticable.  He  had  been  at  home, 
however,  for  two  months  and  had  not  yet  taken  any 
action  beyond,  he  explained  it,  preparing  the  way  for 
the  favorable  reception  of  his  demand  by  a  greater 
than  usual  effort  to  be  obliging  and  indispensable. 
His  excuses  were  detailed  and  reasonable  enough,  but 
there  was  no  mistaking  a  lack  of  ardor.  He  was  not 
enthusiastic. 

Anne  had  urged  upon  her  brother  at  the  first  that 
those  of  their  own  position  and  walk  in  life  could  form 
no  conception  of  the  exigencies  of  station  and  wealth 
in  another  manner  of  world,  nor  of  the  complications 
possible  in  cases  such  as  Harnett's.  And  she  tried  to 
tell  herself  so  now.  But  Harnett  wrote,  first,  that  his 
uncle  was  occupied  with  affairs  of  a  wider  than  per- 


166  ANNE  CAEMEL 

sonal  importance  and  could  not,  for  the  time  being, 
be  harassed.  Then  it  was  that  he  himself  had  been 
unwillingly  obliged  to  accept  an  invitation  which  took 
him  away  for  some  days.  Thereafter  it  was  that  his 
uncle's  house  was  filled  with  visitors  —  and  as  if  the 
possibility  of  his  word  being  doubted  occurred  to 
him,  he  sent  cuttings  from  papers  in  corroboration. 
He  insisted  upon  his  good  intentions.  If  he  could 
have  been  sure  of,  could  even  have  hoped  for,  the 
granting  of  his  request,  he  would  not  have  let  a  mo 
ment  be  lost,  he  told  her,  only,  refusal  was  little  less 
than  a  certainty.  And,  in  that  event,  he  could  clearly 
not  walk  out  from  his  home  and  away  from  his  guests 
and  hie  himself  back  across  the  Atlantic  forthwith. 
He  would  have  to  use  discretion,  as  well  as,  unfortu 
nately,  some  subterfuge.  His  uncle  must  be  allowed 
to  think  that  the  refusal  had  put  an  end  to  the  matter 
out  of  hand.  "After  that,"  he  wrote,  "I  can  get 
off  —  for  the  caribou  shooting,  we  will  say."  It  was 
the  only  possible  handling  of  the  difficulty. 

To  have  it  called  a  difficulty  was  in  itself  somewhat 
of  a  blow  to  Anne.  There  was  about  it  too  much  of  a 
suggestion  of  self-sacrifice  to  an  obligation  become  a 
trifle  irksome.  Discretion,  dilatory  tactics,  temporiz 
ing,  evading,  and  waiting  for  seasonable  opportunities 
were  foreign  to  her  own  nature.  She  herself  had 
acted  on  the  impulse  of  a  force  that  drove  one  on  to 
break  down  barriers  or  be  broken  against  them.  Har- 


ANNE  OAEMEL  167 

nett  had  written  that  if  his  uncle  should  form  sus 
picions  of  what  they  proposed  he  would  take  means  to 
prevent  it.  "It  will  be  too  near  and  too  far  from 
a  marriage,"  he  had  said.  And  it  was  quite  as 
probable  that  disinheritance  would  follow  one  as  the 
other. 

It  had  been  precisely  to  save  him  from  the  disin 
heritance  and  all  it  implied  that  she  had,  in  the  first 
instance,  made  her  stand.  But  consistency  was  not 
equal  to  suppressing  a  reproach  that  he  should  have 
been  willing  to  dare  more  for  her  than  he  seemed  in 
the  least  anxious  to.  It  was  a  reproach,  however, 
which  she  kept  to  herself.  Then  had  come  a  letter 
saying  that  the  uncle  was  ill,  that  there  was  now  no 
knowing  how  long  the  delay  might  be.  "You  must 
not  feel  yourself  bound  to  me,"  he  wrote.  "  If  you  had 
rather  be  free,  I  will  not  expect  you  to  keep  your  prom 
ise."  She  saw  it  as  her  dismissal.  She  was  alone  by 
the  river  in  the  same  clump  of  silver  birches  where 
Harnett  had  first  come  upon  her.  The  blow  had 
been  hard  enough  to  deaden  the  sensation  of  pain. 
She  was  conscious  of  an  indifference  which  was  a 
relief.  There  recurred  to  her  the  burden  of  a  habi 
tant  song  of  ancient  French  origin :  — 

Les  nouvelles  que  j'ai  apporte 
Que  votre  amant  vous  mande. 
Que  vous  fassiez  choix  d'un  amant, 
Pour  lui  a  une  amante. 


168  ANNE  CARMEL 

She  read  the  letter  over  again  slowly  ;  then  sat  with 
her  hands  dropped  in  her  lap.  She  felt  hard  and 
philosophical.  He  had  got  back  to  the  life  in  which 
he  belonged  and  he  had  reconsidered,  that  was  all. 
On  the  whole  he  had  behaved  as  well  as  she  had  any 
right  to  expect.  She  had  said  to  Jean  on  the  hilltop, 
in  the  midst  of  the  storm,  "If  he  should  change  his 
mind,  or  come  to  think  me  like  any  other  woman 
who  is  only  —  bad  — "  Well,  he  had  changed  his 
mind.  And  possibly  he  had  come  to  think  her  like 
any  other  bad  woman.  He  wanted  her  out  of  his 
life  definitely  and  was  showing  the  way  to  her.  If 
she  did  not  take  it  of  her  own  accord,  he  would  force 
her  to,  probably.  The  best  she  could  do  would  be 
to  accept  the  situation  once  and  for  all.  Certainly 
she  would  not  whimper,  or  beg,  or  reproach. 

She  sat  thinking  it  all  over  for  a  time.  Then  she 
put  away  the  letter,  stood  up,  and  started  back  to  the 
presbytere.  On  the  way  she  met  Paul  Tetrault,  and 
the  smile  she  gave  him  encouraged  him  to  turn  and 
walk  home  with  her.  He  went  in.  They  were  alone, 
and  before  he  left  he  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her 
for  the  first  time.  She  made  no  protest.  She  even  left 
her  hands  in  his  that  felt  so  thick  and  hot,  and  laid  her 
head  against  his  shoulder,  which  smelled  of  cheap  scent. 
He  was  kind  to  her.  And  she  was  heartbroken  and 
tired  —  besides  —  "que  vous  fassiez  choix  d'un  amant, 
pour  lui  a  une  amante,"  she  thought  cynically. 


ANNE  CARMEL  169 

He  left  her,  and  she  went  into  her  own  room,  lock 
ing  the  door  behind  her  and  standing  stupidly  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor. 

Paul  would  ask  her  to  marry  him.  She  knew  that. 
A  year  ago  he  would  not  have  kissed  her  first.  She 
knew  that  too.  But  she  was  not  a  woman  who  could 
be  exacting  as  to  the  precise  degree  of  respect  to 
be  shown  her.  She  would  marry  him.  It  did  not 
matter.  It  was  better  to  marry  and  be  a  mother. 
One  man  as  well  as  another  would  do  to  be  the  father 
of  her  children.  If  she  could  ever  be  warmed  into 
caring  for  any  one  again,  it  might  be  perhaps  for 
those.  And  Harnett  —  she  drew  a  slow,  uneven 
breath.  He  would  have  children,  too.  Their  mother 
—  would  be  some  other  woman.  She  threw  the  back 
of  her  hand  suddenly  across  her  eyes  and  stood  so. 
Her  mouth  fell  open,  and  she  swayed.  Then  she 
pitched  forward  on  the  floor,  face  down,  her  arms 
outstretched,  shaking  with  spasmodic  sobs. 

No  one  heard  her.  She  was  alone  in  the  house  and 
in  her  misery.  After  a  time  she  grew  quieter.  But 
she  lay  there  still  on  the  worn,  elaborate  rag  mat  of 
her  own  plaiting.  A  sigh  quivered  out  at  long  inter 
vals.  She  pillowed  her  face  on  her  forearm,  closing  her 
hot,  smarting  eyes. 

Madame  Carmel  came  to  the  door  and  tried  it,  speak 
ing  to  her.  It  was  dusk.  She  got  to  her  feet  and 
smoothed  back  her  hair.  Then  she  went  to  open  the 


170  ANNE  CARMEL 

door,  keeping  her  back  to  the  light.  Madame  glanced 
inquiringly  around,  but  she  saw  no  signs  of  the 
letter-writing  of  which  she  so  intensely  disapproved, 
and  at  which  Anne  was  frequently  locked  for  hours 
in  her  room. 

Jean  had  gone  down  to  the  river,  she  said.  Anne 
remembered  that  she  had  promised  to  go  up  as  far  as 
the  tourniquet  with  him.  She  stood  irresolute,  looking 
out  at  the  dusk.  Then  she  crossed  lifelessly  over  to 
the  row  of  hooks  against  the  wall  and  took  down  her 
shawl.  It  was  the  one  she  had  rolled  into  a  cushion 
for  Harnett's  head  in  the  quarry  bottom.  She  had 
not  been  able  to  afford  a  new  one,  and  she  had  washed 
out  the  blood  herself  at  the  river. 

She  went  into  the  hallway.  Madame  was  waiting  in 
the  sitting-room  door.  "Jean  received  a  present  this 
afternoon,"  she  said  ;  and  her  black  brows  raised  mean 
ingly.  She  pointed  to  it.  It  was  a  photograph  of 
Cecily  Thorne,  not  as  they  had  seen  her,  but  a  crea 
ture  of  draperies  and  laces  and  flowers,  diaphanous  and 
slight.  In  madame's  opinion  a  sacred  picture  would 
have  been  a  more  fitting  present  for  a  priest  —  if  there 
was  need  for  any  whatever. 

"Jean  asked  her  for  it,"  Anne  reminded  her;  "he 
told  us  that  he  had."  At  any  rate,  it  was  to  be  hoped 
he  would  not  keep  it  out  for  all  the  parish  to  see. 
Anne  put  it  up  conspicuously.  Then  she  turned  to 
her  mother  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  "  I  should 


ANNE  CARMEL  171 

not  speak  to  him  about  it  in  that  way  if  I  were  you," 
she  offered.  "It  will  not  be  good  for  him." 

She  joined  Jean  on  the  beach  and  took  her  place 
forward  in  the  canoe.  He  pushed  off.  Pilote  sprang 
from  the  board  and  swam  after  them  to  midstream, 
but  she  was  left  well  behind,  a  wistful  yellow  head 
bobbing  about  above  the  water  and  going  finally 
toward  shore  again. 

Jean  and  Anne  headed  up  the  river  and  went  away 
into  the  shadows.  He  told  her,  after  a  while,  that  he 
had  had  a  letter  from  Cecily  Thorne.  In  the  begin 
ning  he  had  showed  the  letters  to  her  and  his  mother ; 
then  he  had  merely  read  parts  of  them  aloud ;  at  the 
end,  he  came  to  simply  giving  them  any  bits  of  news. 

Madame  had  made  a  point  of  not  questioning.  If 
Jean  were  receiving  from  a  Protestant  young  woman 
letters  which  he  could  not  have  seen  by  his  mother, 
since  she  was  not  to  express  her  disapproval,  she,  at 
least,  would  manifest  no  interest  whatever.  Once,  when 
he  had  spent  his  free  time  in  the  midst  of  a  retreat 
writing  to  Miss  Thorne,  she  had  gone  so  far  as  to  in 
quire  with  purpose  whether  the  girl  was  coming  into 
the  Church.  "  Not  so  far  as  I  am  aware,"  he  had  said. 
"I  should  not  think  it  probable." 

As  for  Anne,  her  motives  for  not  questioning  were 
other.  Jean  did  not  catechise  her  as  to  what  she 
heard  from  Harnett.  And  she  was  not,  moreover, 
given  to  needless  speculation  upon  the  affairs  of  others. 


172  ANNE  CARMBL 

That  he  chose  to  write  voluminously  to  a  girl  whom  he 
had  known  for  three  short  days,  and  was  never  to  see 
again,  could  have  no  harm  in  it,  and  was  clearly  no 
one's  concern  but  his  own. 

It  was  a  fact  that  the  correspondence,  from  slight 
beginnings,  had  grown  to  a  long  letter  as  often  as  every 
month.  To  Jean  Carmel,  Cecily  Thorne,  by  reason  of 
her  life  and  of  his  having  no  expectation  of  ever  meeting 
her  in  the  future,  was,  in  a  way,  an  abstraction.  They 
were  neither  of  them  restrained  by  the  reticence  one 
retains  always  toward  those  who  are  the  nearest  in  the 
flesh  —  an  instinctive  safeguard  against  the  humilia 
tion  and  pain  which  only  those  brought  into  close 
contact  with  one  have  the  power  of  inflicting. 

"  She  is  not  to  be  married  for  some  months  yet," 
he  said  between  two  strokes  of  his  paddle.  Anne  did 
not  answer.  She  sat  looking  ahead  over  the  dark 
shimmer  of  the  water.  Near  by  they  could  see  well 
enough  in  the  starlight.  But  at  a  little  distance  it 
was  black  and  vague.  Her  life  would  be  like  that 
from  now  on.  She  could  only  endure  it  by  thinking 
of  nothing  but  the  immediate  present,  or  what  was 
close  at  hand.  Beyond  that  would  be  the  shadows  of 
hopelessness.  She  would  not  answer  Harnett's  letter. 

That  night  when  she  was  in  her  room  again  she  got 
all  his  letters  from  the  place  where  she  kept  them 
hidden  and  sat  with  them  in  her  lap.  She  did  not 
take  any  of  them  from  their  envelopes.  She  could 


ANNE  CARMBL  173 

not  have  read  them.  After  a  while  she  gathered  them 
together,  wrapped  and  tied  them  tightly.  The  knot 
would  never  be  undone  in  all  likelihood.  She  would 
never  look  into  the  package  again,  but  she  would  keep 
it.  There  is  always  a  sense  of  finality  of  putting  a 
definite  line  between  the  past  and  the  future,  when  one 
destroys  anything  connected  closely  with  a  part  of 
one's  life. 

When  she  should  marry  Paul  Tetrault,  she  might  be 
obliged  to  burn  the  letters.  He  would  be  jealous,  even 
of  the  past,  and  small  and  petty  in  a  number  of  ways. 
However  —  he  would  be  as  kind  as  she  had  any  right 
to  expect,  and  his  affection  would  be  the  more  insistent 
because  of  her  very  indifference.  She  shivered.  A 
year  ago,  when  she  had  been  able  to  think  without  dis 
taste  of  marriage  with  him,  she  had  been  more  ignorant 
than  she  was  now,  more  innocent. 

It  came  about  as  she  had  expected.  After  a  week  or 
two  Tetrault  nerved  himself  to  take  the  serious  step 
of  asking  a  woman  in  discredit  to  be  his  wife.  There 
was  an  unfortunate  suggestion  of  condescension,  and 
she  felt  it.  The  blood  came  to  her  face,  and  for  an  in 
stant  she  thought  of  refusing  him.  But  if  she  wanted 
to  punish  him,  the  most  ironical  manner  of  doing  it 
would  be,  after  all,  to  let  him  marry  her.  She  accepted 
him. 

And  that  night  there  was  an  ugly  scene  at  the  pres- 
bytere  when  Madame  Tetrault  drove  in  from  the 


174  ANNE  CARMEL 

farm  with  her  husband  and  attacked  Anne  with  all  the 
rage  of  the  female  protecting  its  young.  Her  Paul, 
with  his  pink  and  white  skin  and  fair  hair,  he  was  her 
pride  and  favorite.  And  he  was  to  be  sacrificed  to  the 
wiles  of  a  bad  woman,  who  had  used  her  ill-learned 
devices  upon  him.  Jean  Carmel  endured  as  long  as  he 
could.  Then  when  Madame  Tetrault  lost  all  control 
of  herself  and  turning  to  the  coolly  scrutinizing  Anne 
spit  epithets  in  her  face,  he  walked  over  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  shoulder  with  all  its  weight.  "You 
will  stop  that,  madame,"  he  said,  with  deliberation  — 
"  or  you  will  go  out  of  the  house."  She  went  out  of  the 
house,  Tetrault  meek,  but  angry  too,  following. 

Jean  Carmel  shut  the  door  behind  them  and  came 
back  into  the  room.  Anne  had  gone  to  the  table  and 
was  mechanically  moving  things  about,  with  hands 
which  shook  visibly.  "  Well,"  he  asked  her,  "  what  do 
you  intend  to  do  ?  " 

She  raised  her  shoulders,  her  unsteady  lips  curling. 
"  If  Paul  wants  to  change  his  mind,  I  will  not  fall  at 
his  feet  and  beseech  him,  certainly." 

"  Otherwise  you  will  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Otherwise  I  will  marry  him." 

"  Do  you   care   for   him  ?  " 

She  smiled  at  the  suggestion.  "  Is  it  probable  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  But  I  will  be  what  he  wants,  —  his  wife, 
and  faithful.  You  need  not  be  afraid." 

His  eyes  were  stern.     "  I  should  advise  you  to  break 


ANNE  CAKMEL  175 

off  the  whole  affair  at  once.  If  you  marry  him,  it  will 
be  against  my  wishes."  He  did  not  share  Madame 
Carmel's  opinion  that  Anne  was  fortunate  beyond  any 
thing  she  might  have  dared  to  hope. 

"I  have  promised,"  Anne  answered.  "But  Paul 
may  do  as  he  likes.  It  does  not  matter  to  me." 

And  Tetrault  himself  saw  that  it  did  not,  when  he 
went  back  to  the  presbytere,  despite  the  wrath  of  his 
parents.  The  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  After  almost 
ten  years  of  devotion,  after  he  had,  for  her  sake,  dared 
public  opinion  and  the  curses  of  his  parents,  when  he 
was  ready  to  endure  scorn  and  some  little  deprivation 
for  her  !  It  was  not  kind.  But  lost  faith  and  hope 
bring  lost  charity,  and  the  most  she  could  feel  for  him 
was  a  contemptuous  pity.  "  Don't  cry,  Paul,"  she  said. 
"Men  who  beat  one  are  better."  He  drew  his  wrist 
across  his  eyes.  He  did  not  want  to  annoy  her. 

And  in  the  end  neither  the  elder  Tetraults  nor 
Jean  Carmel  had  their  way.  Anne  and  Paul  were 
engaged  to  be  married,  and  Madame  Carmel  rallied 
for  a  while,  because  of  her  satisfaction.  Her  daughter 
was  to  be  made  an  honest  woman  and  the  disgrace 
wiped  out. 

Other  letters  came  from  Harnett.  His  uncle  was 
still  in  a  dangerous  state.  Anne  did  not  miss  the 
fact  that  he  committed  himself  in  nowise  as  to  what 
he  would  do  in  the  event  of  his  being  left  his  own 
master.  And  whether  it  were  an  oversight  or  an 


176  ANNE  CARMEL 

intentional  evasion,  it  seemed  to  her  equally  inexcus 
able.     She  did  not  reply. 

He  complained  of  her  silence  several  times,  not  too 
bitterly.     Then  she  did  not  hear  from  him  again. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  autumn  went,  closing  finally  with  the  cere 
monies  and  confessions  of  the  Toussaint,  and  the  win 
ter  came  on  with  its  departure  of  many  of  the  men 
and  boys  for  the  loggers'  camps.  The  farmers  and 
the  storekeepers  and  the  housewives,  even  the  work 
animals,  had  less  to  do  than  during  the  rest  of  the  year. 
It  was  not  so  with  the  Cure.  He  seemed  always  to 
be  needed  more  then  than  at  other  times.  In  the 
long,  confined,  inactive  season  there  was  more  chance 
to  forget  nature  and  its  joys,  and  to  think  of  one's 
soul  and  its  sorrows.  And  there  were  more  soirees 
now,  too,  when  the  evenings  hung  heavy  and  visiting 
was  done  somewhat  after  the  fashion  set  by  the  earlier 
habitants  of  before  the  Conquest.  The  Cure  was 
always  asked,  and  he  usually  went,  occasionally  even 
to  the  dances  ;  for  his  objection  to  those  was  not  so 
marked  as  that  of  most  of  the  other  priests.  And  he 
found  that  when  he  was  there  fewer  undesirable  results 
followed  the  freedom  and  drinking,  —  results  of  whose 
gravest  evils  only  he,  very  often,  knew. 

The  drives  were  frequently  troublesome  and  terribly 
*  177 


178  ANNE  CAEMBL 

cold ;  but  he  objected  not  so  much  to  that  as  to  the 
tedious  hours  of  close,  stove-heated  rooms,  reeking  with 
tobacco  smoke  and  even  less  pleasant  odors  and  fumes, 
the  pointless  bucolic  gayety,  the  excited  games  of  casino, 
and  the  long-drawn-out  absurdities  of  tales  and  love, 
devoid  of  either  wit  or  moral.  He  would  have  been 
glad  to  stop  at  home  with  his  mother  and  Anne  and 
his  books.  In  the  day  he  had  small  leisure  for  read 
ing.  From  the  early  morning  mass  on,  there  was 
plenty  to  be  done,  —  the  business  of  the  church  and 
parish  to  be  attended  to,  baptisms  now  and  then,  the 
daily  offices  to  be  recited,  and  the  sermons  for  saints' 
days  and  Sundays  to  be  prepared.  In  his  determina 
tion  to  keep  from  the  mental  sloth  into  which  so  many 
of  the  clergy  had  sunk,  he  devoted  set  hours  to  study. 
He  had  begun  again  to  take  certain  magazines  and 
journals  which  he  had  read  regularly  upon  first  coming 
to  St.  Hilaire.  They  were  French  and  English.  A 
priest  from  Montreal,  a  friend  of  his  college  days,  had 
looked  them  over  questionmgly.  They  were  not  by 
any  means  what  he  was  accustomed  to  see  on  the 
tables  of  other  confreres  whom  he  visited,  in  villages, 
—  or  towns,  for  that  matter.  He  commented  upon 
them. 

"  Even  we  are  not  always  exempt,"  Monsieur  Carmel 
said  ;  "  even  with  us  there  may  be  a  woman  in  the 
case,"  and  he  told  him  of  Cecily  Thorne.  "For 
my  own  credit  and  that  of  the  clergy,  I  saw  that  it 


ANNE  CABMEL  179 

behooved  me  to  be  not  altogether  ignorant  of  the  pro 
fane  modern  world.  So  now,"  he  swept  his  hand 
over  the  table,  "  I  am  a  paragon  of  information  —  all 
things  considered." 

At  the  end  of  December  there  came  on  the  holidays, 
— Christmas  with  its  religious  observances;  New  Year's 
Day  with  its  early  morning  visits  to  parents  and 
friends,  its  good  wishes  and  promiscuous  kissing,  and 
its  high  mass  ;  and  the  Epiphany,  until  after  which 
the  loggers  could  not  be  got  back  to  their  lonely  cabins 
in  the  forests. 

It  was  some  two  weeks  from  the  close  of  the  fetes 
that  Jean  Carmel  settled  himself  in  an  easy-chair  near 
to  the  fire  for  a  long  and  satisfactory  evening  with  a 
mundane  review.  Madame  was  knitting  and  Anne  at 
work  upon  the  crochet  lace  which  was  to  be  for  her 
wedding  clothes,  and  progressed  with  about  the  speed 
of  a  Penelope's  web. 

There  was  the  sound  of  feet  stamping  across  the 
porch,  and  a  loud  knock  followed.  Anne  put  down  her 
lace  quickly  and  went  to  the  door.  Her  brother  had 
half  risen  and  turned  his  head,  waiting  to  see  who  it 
was  had  come  out  at  the  late  hour  of  nine  o'clock  and 
in  such  a  storm,  —  the  worst  of  the  winter  so  far. 

It  was  Antoine.  He  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the 
sitting  room,  coated  with  a  fine  hoar  of  ice  from  the 
button  of  his  coonskin  cap  to  the  soft  boots  on  his 
feet.  His  eyes,  changing  from  the  darkness  into  the 


180  ANNE  CARMEL 

light,  expanded  and  contracted  like  a  cat's.  He  had 
come  in  that  day,  he  said,  and  he  was  staying  at 
Seailles'  cabin.  Marcelin  was  dying.  Would  m'sieu' 
go  to  him  ?  "I  have  stopped  for  Coppee  —  but  he 
says  the  storm  is  too  bad."  Coppee  was  Seailles' 
remote  but  only  relative. 

Monsieur  Carmel  rose  to  his  feet  and  put  aside  the 
review.  For  the  first  time  he  had  ever  known  her  to 
offer  interference  in  a  matter  distinctly  his  own,  Anne 
protested. 

"Jean,"  she  said  impatiently,  "you  cannot  do  it. 
It  is  out  of  the  question.  Three  miles  through  the 
woods  on  a  night  like  this." 

He  ignored  it.  "Come  in,"  he  said  to  the  Metis. 
"Wait  for  me,"  and  he  started  toward  his  room. 
Anne  flushed  angrily.  But  she  had  the  wisdom  to 
know  when  to  withdraw. 

Madame  Carmel  had  not.  She  put  herself  in  her  son's 
way.  Surely,  he  was  not  going  to  attempt  it.  It  was 
three  miles.  "  Well  !  "  he  answered,  "  and  if  it  were 
six  ?  "  But  the  night  was  the  worst  in  years.  Even 
Coppee,  who  had  been  brought  up  to  the  country,  would 
not  go ;  and  Marcelin  was  his  own  relation.  Amelie 
Latouche  had  come  into  the  doorway  and  was  joining 
in  the  objections.  Antoine  stood  watching  with  the 
eyes  that  spread  and  narrowed  and  expressed  nothing 
at  all.  Monsieur  Carmel  was  close  to  losing  his  temper. 
"  Antoine  has  come,  nevertheless,"  he  said,  moving  his 


ANNE  CARMEL  181 

mother  from  in  front  of  him.  "  Antoine! "  she  answered. 
"Antoine  is  a  half-breed  and  a  coureur  de  bois."  It 
was  not  the  right  argument.  It  were  a  pity  if  a  half- 
breed  coureur  de  bois  could  do  more  for  a  friend  than 
a  priest  could  do  for  a  parishioner. 

He  came  out  of  his  room  almost  immediately,  muffled 
to  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  a  fur  cap  drawn  down  to  his 
eyebrows.  Amelie  had  lighted  his  lantern.  She  gave 
it  to  him  with  a  blessing.  Monsieur  Carmel's  lantern 
was  like  any  other,  but  Antoine's  was  a  tin  one,  pierced 
with  tiny  holes  in  circles  and  patterns.  They  went  out 
into  the  shrieking  night.  And  presently  from  the 
direction  of  the  church  there  came  the  tinkle  of  the 
Cure's  bell  faint  on  the  wild  wind.  They  dropped  on 
their  knees,  Anne,  madame,  and  the  servant,  crossing 
themselves  and  praying  for  the  departing  soul. 

When  they  rose  again  to  their  feet,  madame  went  to 
the  window  and  stood  there,  as  if  she  could  have  seen 
out  through  the  solid  wooden  shutters.  "  Is  it  snow 
ing  ?  "  she  asked. 

Anne  shook  her  head  uneasily,  "  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is 
an  ice  storm  —  and  a  northeast  wind." 

Amelie  was  guilty  of  a  heresy.  It  seemed  to  her, 
she  complained,  that  a  worthless  old  man  like  Mar- 
celin  could  have  died  just  as  well  without  dragging 
out  monsieur  to  help  him.  "  At  this  hour,  too," 
she  said,  looking  toward  the  clock  —  not  because  she 
could  read  its  face,  but  because  she  knew  its  use  so  far 


182  ANNE  CARMEL 

as  others  were  concerned.  "  At  this  hour,  in  such  a 
storm  !  And  he's  been  as  good  as  dead  these  twenty 
years  already.  By  the  time  monsieur  can  get  there  he 
may  be  altogether  so."  She  was  working  herself  into 
spluttering  indignation  over  it.  Antoine  should  have 
had  more  sense,  she  held,  even  though  Marcelin  and  his 
sister  had  not.  "  If  he  has  behaved  himself,  I  expect 
he'd  go  to  Heaven  just  the  same  without  risking  a  good 
man's  life.  And  if  he  hasn't,  repenting  when  he's 
scared  out  of  the  little  wits  he's  got  left,  won't  do 
him  a  great  deal  of  good,  the  bonhomme."  Then  the 
thought  came  to  her  that  she  might  be  referring  to  a 
disembodied  spirit,  and  she  crossed  herself,  muttering. 

Neither  madame  nor  Anne  subscribed  to  this  view  of 
it.  In  matters  of  doctrine  and  religious  duties  Anne 
was  only  a  very  little  less  bigoted  than  her  mother. 
Toward  unbelievers  her  toleration  was  wider,  but  that 
was  all.  "  You  would  do  better,"  she  told  Amelie, 
whose  night-capped  face  looked  half  frightened  already 
at  her  own  blasphemy, — "you  would  do  better  to  go  to 
your  room  and  pray  for  Marcelin."  Amelie  went  off 
and  did  so  —  adding  a  petition  for  Monsieur  Carmel's 
safety. 

And  there  was  need  for  it.  The  Cur6  and  Antoine 
were  well  into  the  forest,  taking  the  most  direct  path, 
usually  the  least  travelled.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
half-breed,  Monsieur  Carmel  would  not  have  been  able 
to  follow  it,  but  Antoine  with  the  lantern  was  keeping 


ANNE  CARMEL  183 

just  ahead.  The  bell  tinkled  desultorily  now  and  then, 
but  there  was  no  one  to  hear  it.  They  were  well  off 
from  all  habitations.  The  sleet  had  been  falling  all 
day,  and  freezing  as  it  fell.  The  ground  was  ice  covered, 
the  trees  ice  sheathed.  In  the  woods  they  creaked  and 
crashed  as  the  wind  passed  through  them,  roaring,  dying 
down,  humming  tensely,  like  the  dying  vibration  of 
some  huge  base  string,  bursting  out  in  a  long  low  howl, 
beating  together  the  chiming  limbs.  There  were  none 
of  the  smaller  sounds  of  night.  It  was  all  the  superb 
crescendo  jubilation  in  the  blackness,  of  a  gale-whipped, 
icy  world,  the  clashing  music  of  crystal  branches 
through  all  the  hills,  beyond  and  beyond,  across  the 
mountains — a  Walpurgis  Nacht  of  the  demon  spirits 
of  the  Arctic  floes. 

Sharp  bits  of  ice  were  cutting  and  driving  through 
the  night.  Brittle  boughs  were  coming  down  with  a 
sharp  ringing.  Whole  limbs  were  breaking  off  and 
shivering  with  a  clangor.  Sometimes  a  great  dead 
tree,  split  down  the  trunk  and  torn  asunder,  rent  the 
boreal  diapason  with  a  mighty  cry  as  it  gave  up  its 
ancient  soul. 

The  Cure  pushed  on  in  the  wild  darkness.  His 
gray  woollen  mittens  were  frozen  on  his  hands,  his  coat 
was  stiff  and  hard,  the  muffler  over  his  face  was  solid, 
the  sleet  caked  on  his  eyes.  The  pain  of  it  made  his 
whole  head  ache  most  unendurably.  He  was  dazed 
from  the  blow  of  a  snapped-off  branch  that  had  struck 


184  ANNE  CARMBL 

upon  his  neck.  "You  may  be  killed,  mon  pere," 
Antoine  had  warned  on  the  porch  of  the  presbytere  as 
they  had  started  out.  He  had  not  even  answered  it. 
But  he  thought  now  that  death  in  a  great  storm  —  by 
land  or  sea  —  was  surely  a  magnificent  thing.  To  be 
swirled  back  into  the  rush  of  the  elements  from  which 
one  had  come.  Once  or  twice  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  near  it.  There  was  a  roaring  blackness,  like 
that  of  the  night  itself,  in  his  head.  He  could  not  see 
the  flickering  pattern  of  red  gleams  from  Antoine's 
lantern,  but  sharp  sparks  danced  across  his  eyes.  He 
got  a  long  breath  again  then,  and  bent  over,  keeping 
on.  It  was  a  struggle,  but  an  exultant  one. 

Antoine  turned  back  and  came  beside  him,  his  mouth 
to  his  ear.  They  waited.  When  there  fell  a  lull,  the 
half-breed  shouted.  There  was  a  way  by  a  branch 
path,  he  said,  a  yet  shorter  one.  It  crossed  over  the 
Riviere  aux  Trembles,  by  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree. 
There  was  a  hand-rail,  of  a  sort  along  the  trunk  —  some 
limbs  nailed  together.  Should  they  go  by  there  ?  It 
was  not  safe  perhaps,  but  it  would  save  something  more 
than  half  a  mile,  and  bring  them  to  the  cabane  in  time, 
it  might  be.  Monsieur  Carmel  nodded.  Antoine 
went  on  again.  They  neither  of  them  had  seen,  back 
through  the  forest,  the  gleams  of  another  lantern. 
They  had  not  looked  behind.  And  the  loudest  calls 
could  not  have  been  heard  at  the  distance  of  fifty  feet. 
There  was  some  one  following,  however,  and  doing  his 


ANNE  CAKMEL  185 

best  to  catch  them.  It  was  Coppee,  whose  conscience 
had  reproached  him  at  the  sound  of  the  tinkling  bell, 
and  who  had  felt  the  shame  of  fearing  what  a  priest 
and  a  half-breed  did  not  fear. 

After  a  few  moments  Antoine  turned  off  to  the  right, 
Jean  Carmel  close  to  him.  The  path  was  very  narrow 
now.  The  frozen  underbrush  cracked  and  crunched. 
It  was  not  long  before  Antoine  stopped.  He  lifted  the 
lantern  and  threw  the  wavering  flickers  of  its  light  upon 
the  fallen  trunk  stretched  across  a  narrow  gulf  of  black 
ness.  The  Cure  knew  the  place.  He  had  come  to  it, 
but  had  never  gone  beyond.  The  bridge  had  seemed 
too  uncertain.  There  was  a  stream  some  thirty  feet 
below  it.  It  was  a  slippery  foothold  at  any  time. 
And  now,  when  it  was  all  smooth  ice  — 

Antoine  was  shouting  in  his  ear  again.  He  had 
made  the  hand-rail  himself ;  it  was  not  rotten.  Could 
m'sieu'  do  it  —  or  should  they  go  back  by  the  longer 
path? 

The  Cure  thought  of  Marcelin.  A  little  time  might 
mean  much  to  the  old  man,  peace  to  his  departing  soul. 
And  the  longer  way  had  its  dangers,  too.  "  Go  on," 
he  said.  Antoine  went  on.  The  flecks  of  his  lantern 
touched  the  glistening  trunk  in  front  of  him,  but  fell 
upon  nothing  at  either  side  —  were  swallowed  up  in 
black  space.  A  stronger  rush  of  wind  beat  Monsieur 
Carmel  back  for  an  instant.  He  waited,  turning  his 
back.  Then  he  put  his  hand  on  the  slight  rail,  and  his 


186  ANNE  CARMEL 

foot  on  the  round,  glassy  bridge.  Antoine's  soft-shod 
feet  had  clung  almost  like  an  animal's.  He  was 
already  across,  and  looking  back  could  see  the  glow  of 
a  lantern  which  was  not  the  Cure's.  But  Jean  Carmel 
was  not  of  the  lithe  Indian  breed.  His  feet  were 
clumsy  booted  and  they  slipped.  He  was  leaning  the 
whole  of  his  weight  upon  the  handrail,  never  strong, 
and  brittle  now  with  the  cold.  There  came  another 
rush  of  wind,  straight  down  the  course  of  the  stream. 
It  swished  along  fine  darts  of  ice  that  struck  and  cut. 
The  big  figure  balancing  unsurely  was  full  in  its  path. 
It  threw  him  side  wise.  The  rail  cracked  and  gave. 
Then  it  broke  like  a  straw. 

Antoine  on  one  side  and  Coppee  on  the  other  saw  the 
lantern  above  the  black  gulf  whirl  round  in  mid  air, 
plunge  down  beside  a  dark  body,  and  go  out.  They 
held  their  own  lanterns  as  far  up  as  their  arms  would 
reach,  but  the  pin-points  of  glow  showed  nothing  down 
beneath.  They  were  not  more  than  a  few  yards  apart, 
but  though  Coppee  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth  and 
shouted,  no  sound  reached  the  opposite  bank.  Antoine 
signalled  with  gestures,  and  the  other  understood.  On 
the  two  sides  of  the  falls  they  began  their  steep  descent 
to  the  surface  of  the  frozen  creek.  It  would  have  been 
far  from  easy  at  any  time.  And  now,  when  they  could 
not  so  much  as  see  the  slippery  rocks  in  front  of  their 
very  faces,  it  was  dangerous.  They  felt  for  roots  or 
branches  or  plants  by  which  to  clutch.  There  were 


ANNE  CAKMEL  187 

almost  none.  Coppee  lost  his  hold  once.  He  regained 
it,  quivering  and  giddy.  But  his  lantern  had  fallen 
and  gone  out.  There  remained  only  Antoine's.  If 
that  were  to  fail,  the  daylight  might  be  of  small  use  to 
them  when  it  should  come.  Coppee  had  visions  of  three 
wrapped  shapes  stiff  and  still  on  the  gleaming  ice  in 
the  yellow  light  of  a  storm-cleared  dawn. 

But  the  half-breed  came  to  the  level  in  safety.  And 
the  pattern  of  little  red  lights  fell  on  a  huddled  figure 
that  did  not  move. 

Later,  when  Coppee's  rubbing  and  Antoine's  burn 
ing  whiskey  had  had  their  effect,  the  Cure  struggled  up 
with  help  and  stood  on  his  feet.  His  right  arm  hung 
broken,  bent  like  a  short,  twisted  root.  He  staggered, 
sick  with  the  pain  of  it.  They  took  him  up  under  the 
shelter  of  a  rock,  where  the  wind  passed  over  them. 
The  two  lanterns  were  found  and  lighted  again. 
Antoine  went  off  alone  along  the  surface  of  the  stream. 
There  had  to  be  found  a  way  out  by  which  Monsieur 
Carmel  could  climb  or  be  lifted. 

Coppee  doubted  if  there  were  any  such  within  a 
distance  that  the  Cure  could  walk.  And  if  so,  it  must 
bring  them  into  the  woods  at  a  place  where  there  would 
be  no  path.  It  was  a  bad  business.  Antoine  was  a 
crazy  fanatic,  thinking  only  of  getting  a  priest  for  a 
moribund  dotard,  making  good  and  useful  men  risk 
their  lives. 

Monsieur  Carmel  was  swaying  again.     His  eyes  were 


188  ANNE  CABMEL 

shut.  Coppee  desisted  from  his  private  maledictions 
of  the  man  who  was  desirous  of  saving  the  soul  of 
his  ancient  relative,  hung  the  bent  arm  in  a  sling  made 
from  his  own  belt,  and  administered  more  whiskey. 
Then  he  walked  the  Cure  up  and  down,  back  and 
forth.  They  were  suffering  cruelly  with  the  sleet  and 
cold. 

It  was  long  before  the  third  lantern  came  wavering 
through  the  night  again.  But  Antoine  had  found  a 
way.  Monsieur,  he  thought,  could  be  got  up  with  help. 
There  was  also  a  path  beyond  which  would  bring  them 
near  to  Marcelin's  cabane.  He  knew  the  way. 

It  was  a  long  one  and  difficult,  and  Monsieur  Carmel's 
full  weight  fell  on  their  locked  arms  the  last  few  hun 
dred  battling  yards.  He  had  done  his  utmost,  stumbling 
along  with  his  teeth  still  clenched,  blinded  by  the  drizzle 
that  stung  against  his  eyes  and  froze  there,  buffeted  by 
the  wind  that  struck  out  his  breath,  and  stunned  by  the 
roar  in  his  hurt  and  bruised  head.  He  could  have  cried 
like  a  child  with  his  dread  of  a  falling  branch  hitting 
the  numb,  broken  arm.  But  at  last  he  felt  and  knew 
nothing  more  until  he  was  in  front  of  the  great  fire 
place  in  Seailles'  cabin. 

The  long  life  was  not  quite  ended  yet.  At  mid 
night,  though,  it  came  to  its  close.  The  Cure  was 
beside  the  old  man  at  the  last  struggling  instant.  He 
shut  down  the  lids  over  the  pale,  shrunk  little  eyes  that 
stared  wide  in  horror  of  the  storm  which  was  waiting  for 


ANNE  CAEMEL  189 

the  soul  that  must  go  out  upon  it.  It  was  the  left  hand 
which  had  held  the  clutching,  desperate  fingers,  that 
closed  the  eyes,  and  laid  the  crucifix  on  the  sunken 
breast.  The  other  hung  from  the  belt  sling,  livid  and 
blue  nailed.  Even  when  it  was  all  done  the  Cure  would 
have  knelt  for  another  prayer,  but  Antoine  did  not  see 
the  necessity  for  it  now.  He  had  made  a  pile  of  skins 
and  blankets  in  front  of  the  fire  upon  the  floor  and 
forced  Monsieur  Carmel  over  to  it.  He  worked  over 
the  twisted  arm,  pulling  it  straight  as  best  he  could 
with  what  skill  he  had  learned  about  lumbering  camps 
and  on  the  hunt. 

And  Marcelin's  sister  tottered  around  the  rough- 
board  bed,  and  looked  at  the  small,  dirty  parchment 
face  that  seemed,  in  the  candle-light,  to  work  and 
move.  She  touched  it  with  the  tips  of  her  withered 
fingers,  drawing  them  away  quickly  each  time,  as 
a  child  does  with  something  of  which  it  is  more 
than  half  afraid..  The  mind  that  had  never,  at  the 
best,  been  able  to  take  in  other  than  very  rudimentary 
and  simple  things,  was  bewildered  by  all  the  events  of 
the  night.  She  could  not  altogether  understand  that 
Marcelin  was  dead.  He  had  looked  like  that  when  he 
slept,  as  far  back  as  she  could  recall.  For  in  her 
memory  now  he  was  always  withered  and  old.  The 
time,  almost  two  score  years  gone  by,  when  he  had  been 
a  hale  old  man,  was  forgotten,  as  much  so  as  that  one 
infinitely  far  away  when  he  had  been  the  big  boy  who 


190  ANNE  CARMEL 

had  permitted  a  baby  sister  to  toddle  after  him,  and  had 
told  her  sometimes  great  tales  of  how  he  should  fight 
the  English  before  so  very  long.  He  had  fought  the 
English,  and,  led  back  to  submission  by  his  own  priests, 
had  resigned  himself  to  the  conqueror,  and  lived  on 
under  him  peaceably,  advancing  in  no  respect  beyond 
the  status  of  the  parents  who  had  died  in  the  cholera 
of  '34.  And  old  Marie  had  not  grasped  it  that  he  was 
dead  now,  her  companion  of  much  more  than  the  allot 
ted  lifetime  of  usefulness.  She  did  not  feel  grieved  — 
only  puzzled,  baffled,  as  an  animal  seems  to  when  with 
another  that  is  cold  and  still. 

She  had  not  grasped,  either,  that  the  Cure  was  hurt. 
She  saw  him  lying  there  in  the  light  of  the  fire  against 
the  rough,  dark  furs — Antoine  on  one  side  of  him 
working  with  the  crooked  arm,  straightening  it  gradu 
ally  by  sheer  strength,  Coppee  on  the  other  side,  squat 
ting  on  his  heels,  the  whiskey  flask  ready,  and  his  eyes 
watching  the  gray  face  with  more  interest  in,  than 
pity  for,  its  signs  of  pain.  Just  once  when  she  heard 
a  moaning  sigh,  she  came  nearer  and  watched,  too.  But 
there  was  no  expression  whatever  on  her  features,  and 
presently  she  turned  away  and  went  back  to  move 
stupidly  around  Marcelin's  bed  again. 

The  men  by  the  fireplace  paid  no  attention  to  her. 
To  Coppee  his  ancient  relative  was  a  troublesome  old 
crone.  And  as  for  Antoine,  his  charity  was  a  good 
deal  that  of  the  wild  animal,  —  to  let  the  disabled  go 


ANNE  CARMEL  191 

under.  Both  were  far  too  much  concerned  with  the 
matter  in  hand  to  trouble  about  Marie.  The  Cure  had 
endured  in  rigid  silence,  then  he  had  lost  conscious 
ness  again,  and  for  all  their  efforts  he  was  not  to  be 
revived. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE  effects  of  the  fall  were  worse  than  the  badly 
broken  arm,  so  much  worse  that  they  were  quite 
beyond  the  very  inadequate  experience  and  compre 
hension  of  the  doctor  who  came  from  the  neighboring 
parish.  Not  that  he  said  so  to  Madame  Carmel.  No 
amount  of  risk  to  a  patient  would  have  induced  him 
to  depreciate  his  own  worth.  But  when  the  Cure 
could  not  be  roused  for  days  and  lay  in  the  same 
stupor,  he  advised  that  the  worst  was  to  be  made 
ready  for.  "  You  may  pray  for  his  recovery,  certainly, 
since  all  things  are  possible  to  medicine  and  God," 
he  said,  "yet  you  should  also  pray  for  his  happy 
death." 

Madame  not  only  prayed,  but  vowed  various  candles, 
ranging  in  weight  from  a  few  ounces  to  a  pound, 
to  be  burned  in  honor  of  the  Virgin.  And  the  result 
was  apparent.  Jean  Carmel  had  come  near  to  dying, 
but  he  lived,  to  the  doctor's  proud  satisfaction. 
Through  half  of  February,  though,  he  could  not  be 
moved  from  Marcelin's  cabin.  The  place  was  almost 
inaccessible  at  times,  when  the  snowstorms  were 

192 


ANNE  CARMEL  193 

especially  heavy.  Anne  or  his  mother  was  always 
with  him.  Marie  had  been  sent  away  temporarily 
to  the  Labiscaye  cottage.  Once  or  twice  Therese 
brought  currant  wine  and  a  sumach  remedy  of  home 
manufacture,  for  colds.  No  one  at  the  cabin  had  a 
cold,  but  the  expression  of  good-will  remained  the 
same.  Antoine  never  went  beyond  the  clearing,  unless 
it  were  to  the  village  for  supplies.  Of  these  there  had 
been  almost  none  on  hand,  save  the  pork  and  dried  peas 
necessary  for  soup,  some  inferior  flour,  and  a  good  store 
of  acorns. 

The  cabin,  though  it  had  only  one  room  and  a  lean-to, 
was  piled  high  with  earth  outside  for  warmth,  and  it 
was  fairly  comfortable  after  Anne  had  cleaned  it  from 
ceiling  to  floor,  disposing  of  cobwebs  and  insects  and 
the  accumulated  filth  of  years.  Investigation  of  the 
iron  kettle  on  the  hook  in  the  fireplace  disclosed  the 
residue  of  what  seemed  to  be  the  pea  soup  of  a  gener 
ation.  Anne  brought  ashes  and  fire  to  her  aid  in  puri 
fying  it,  and  from  then  on  no  one  fared  badly  in  the 
matter  of  food. 

In  due  course  Monsieur  Carmel  was  able  to  be  taken 
back  to  St.  Hilaire,  dragged  on  a  low,  wooden  sledge 
by  Antoine,  and  followed  by  the  doctor  and  Anne. 
The  snow  was  not  heavy,  even  in  the  woods,  and  it 
was  coated  over  with  a  hard  frost  that  made  it  ring 
under  the  runners  and  footfalls. 

Antoine  had  waited  to  be  certain  that  he  was  of  no 


194  ANNE   CAKMEL 

further  use,  then  he  disappeared  —  without  word  or 
warning. 

Madame  Carmel's  character  was  of  those  that 
rise  to  great  emergencies  and  fail  signally  at  lesser 
ones,  much  as  certain  machines  are  calculated  to  lift 
large  bodies  with  ease,  but  cannot  so  much  as  close 
on  something  small.  She  had  met  her  responsibilities 
admirably  during  Jean's  illness.  Directly  they  were 
at  an  end  she  gave  way.  Anne  took  care  of  her,  and 
was  glad  of  the  work.  It  gave  her,  for  one  thing, 
an  excuse  to  discourage  Paul  Tetrault  from  being  con 
tinually  at  the  presbytere.  He  complained  of  it.  As 
he  saw  it,  it  was  precisely  when  she  was  in  need  or 
trouble  that  his  place  was  near  her,  to  be  her  support. 
He  waxed  pathetic  over  it.  Anne  kept  down  her 
irritation,  but  the  absurdity  of  looking  to  him  for  sup 
port  was  not  to  be  resisted.  She  smiled  and  he  did  not 
understand  it.  He  was  hurt. 

The  priest  from  the  next  parish  came  several  times 
on  visits,  and  improved  a  golden  opportunity  to  give 
the  sister  of  his  friend  the  good  counsels  of  which  he 
was  evidently  convinced  she  stood  in  need.  He  was 
of  the  universal  opinion  that  Monsieur  Carmel  was  too 
infatuated  with  his  sister  to  rebuke  or  guide  her  suc 
cessfully.  One  did  not,  surely,  defer  to  and  consult 
and  treat  as  if  she  were  superior  to  most  of  her  kind, 
a  woman  who  had  followed  Anne  Carmel's  course  of 
action.  One  was  charitable  to  her,  to  be  sure;  one 


ANNE  CARMEL  196 

showed  sympathy,  but  one  expected  her  to  repent  of 
her  sins  and  keep  them  ever  before  her.  He  was  a 
kindly  disposed  old  man,  and  Anne  accepted  his  well- 
meant  sermons  without  other  protest  than  a  mental  one 
against  his  untidy  appearance  —  much  as  she  had 
thought  about  Paul  Tetrault's  thick  hands  when  he 
had  been  trying  to  make  her  see  that  she  was  taking 
the  way  to  ruin. 

Her  humility,  however,  encouraged  the  priest  to 
believe  that  he  had  done  her  good.  And  he  was  anxious 
to  be  of  service  to  her.  He  could  not  help  liking  her. 
He  liked  her,  and  he  was  sorry  for  her.  Whatever 
the  way  her  feet  had  trod  in  the  past,  he  was  sure  that 
in  the  present  it  was  not  a  soft  one.  She  was  colorless 
and  thin.  He  could  realize  it  the  better  that  he  only 
saw  her  at  intervals ;  but  even  her  brother  had  noticed 
it,  and  it  struck  him  with  especial  force  one  afternoon 
when  she  came  bringing  her  sewing  to  sit  beside  him 
where  he  was  reading  by  the  window.  He  might  read 
to  her,  she  suggested.  He  began  obediently  at  the 
page  which  was  open.  It  was  a  Latin  Horace,  and  her 
knowledge  of  Latin  was  confined  to  some  few  phrases 
of  the  mass.  She  took  the  book  from  him  and  sub 
stituted  another.  He  accepted  it  with  entire  docility. 

She  sat  sewing  and  listening  to  his  deep,  pulpit- 
trained  voice,  keeping  her  thoughts  to  it,  by  an  effort 
of  will,  for  a  while.  Then  they  drifted  gradually  off. 
She  was  back  in  the  garden,  in  the  warm,  thick  dark- 


196  ANNE   CARMEL 

ness  of  a  September  night,  under  the  low-branched 
maples  by  the  gate.  She  was  feeling  Harnett  close 
to  her,  moving  irresistibly  nearer,  touching  her  hair 
with  his  lips,  and  then  her  forehead,  and  then  her 
own  lips,  holding  her  to  him  through  a  long  silence, 
his  face  against  hers.  Her  fingers  trembled  and  were 
useless;  her  sight  blurred.  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
throat  with  a  gasp  for  the  breath  that  seemed  going 
from  her  in  a  vacuum  of  hopelessness.  Jean  looked 
up  from  the  book  quickly.  The  last  line  he  had 
read  was  in  her  ear,  and  she  repeated  it  mechanically. 
"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  heard  you."  He  went  on 
reading. 

In  his  inaction  he  had  now  and  then  amused  himself  by 
making  left-handed  drawings  of  her  at  her  work  about 
the  house.  They  were  awkward  and  wavering,  but  he 
had  something  of  a  facility  for  caricature,  and  the  like 
ness  was  unmistakable.  He  was  encouraged  to  at 
tempt  a  laborious  slantwise  note  to  Cecily  Thorne. 
Since  December  she  had  not  written  to  him.  "  She  is 
tired  of  keeping  up  a  correspondence  with  an  unso 
phisticated  country  priest,"  he  spoke  of  it  to  Anne. 
"Nevertheless  she  shall  at  least  have  pity  upon  me 
while  I  am  disabled.  Charity  requires  it."  He  wrote. 
And  on  an  impulse,  he  slipped  into  the  letter  a  little 
silver  crucifix  worn  almost  to  the  thinness  of  paper.  It 
was  one  which  had  belonged  long  since  to  a  mother 
superior  of  the  Gray  Nuns  of  Montreal,  and  had  been 


ANNE   CABMEL  197 

» 

sent  to  her  by  the  Holy  Father  from  Rome.  The  im 
pulse  was  one  that  he  took  the  trouble  to  explain  to 
himself  on  the  grounds  that  he  was  indebted  to  her  for 
a  number  of  things  —  ranging  from  her  picture  to  books 
and  a  package  of  rare  poppy  seeds.  He  found  the  ex 
planation  satisfactory. 

"I  gave  an  account  of  my  sufferings  calculated  to 
melt  a  heart  of  stone,"  he  told  his  mother.  It  had 
been  a  passing  mention,  as  a  reason  for  the  hand 
writing,  that  he  had  broken  his  arm. 

The  desired  effect  was  obtained.  Cecily  Thome 
wrote.  Having  read  the  letter,  Jean  Carmel  reported 
that  Thome  and  his  son  were  to  return  to  the  neigh 
borhood  in  the  summer.  Thorne  had  further  observa 
tions  to  make  in  the  surrounding  countiy,  and  the 
village  had  pleased  him. 

It  was  not  the  Cure  himself  who  brought  about  the 
suggestion  that  Miss  Thome  should  be  asked  to  come 
with  them.  It  was  Anne.  There  came  to  him  on 
the  instant  the  possibility  of  a  way  to  perhaps  put 
a  stop  to  the  marriage  with  Paul  Tetrault.  If  Anne 
could  be  made  to  see  the  little  habitant  beau  through 
the  eyes  of  a  woman  from  the  outer  world,  whatever 
inexplicable,  exalted,  false-romantic  notions  were  in 
her  head  now  might  be  got  rid  of.  "You  will  be 
married,"  he  objected.  Anne  was  by  no  means  cer 
tain  as  to  that,  and  said  so.  She  was  not  pressing  the 
time  of  the  wedding. 


198  ANNE   CARMEL 

* 

If  she  would  agree,  he  offered,  that  she  would  not 
be  married,  he  would  ask  Miss  Thorne  to  come. 
Anne's  eyes  flashed  to  her  mother's  with  a  quick 
warning.  She  had  caught  a  look  of  disapprobation 
coming  over  madame's  face,  and  seen  the  beginning 
of  a  remonstrance.  Madame  Carmel  followed  the 
promptings  of  submission  to  a  dominant  will  before 
she  had  time  to  think.  The  negative  which  had  been 
on  her  tongue  turned  to  a  coerced  consent.  And 
the  first  time  Jean  Carmel  used  his  right  hand 
again,  it  was  to  write  to  Cecily  Thorne.  She  could 
be  of  service,  possibly,  he  told  her,  in  keeping  from 
a  false  step  a  girl  who  had  been  near  to  making  one 
already,  and  now,  in  her  mistaken  estimate  of  many 
things,  was  determined  to  make  another  hardly  less 
serious.  He  read  it  over.  The  reason  was  sufficient 
and  excellent.  It  satisfied  him. 

It  was  well  into  May  that  the  answer  arrived,  when 
the  late  spring  was  brought  in  on  a  southeast  storm 
which  melted  the  last  ice  in  the  creeks  and  rivers  and 
lakes.  Cecily  would  come  —  at  midsummer. 

Before  that  time  there  was  more  than  one  change 
at  the  presbytSre. 

On  Corpus  Christi  Day  Yvonne  Armaille  walked  in 
the  procession  from  altar  to  altar,  a  bunchy  little 
white  figure  among  a  score  of  other  small  maidens, 
uncomfortably  happy  in  their  robes  de  fete,  and  not  a 
little  cold  by  reason  of  a  chilling  spring  wind.  From 


ANNE  CARMEL  199 

the  church  she  was  hurried  back  by  Madame  Gerard 
to  her  own  house  to  say  good-by  to  the  great-grand 
mother.  Madame  Gerard  was  weeping,  and  the  people 
on  the  street  said  "  Pauvre  p'tite  "  as  she  passed,  so 
Yvonne  snivelled  too,  and  rubbed  her  button  of  a  nose 
shiny  red.  The  little  old  woman  sat  in  her  arm 
chair  to  the  last.  She  bequeathed  the  care  of  the 
child  to  Monsieur  Carmel,  the  only  living  being  in 
whom  she  had  faith.  "  Don't  let  your  sister  have  the 
training  of  her,  though,"  she  added  in  her  toothless, 
hissing  voice,  with  senile  spite. 

From  that  day  Yvonne,  heavily  in  black,  went  to 
live  with  the  Cure*.  She  was  wretched  in  the  new  im 
portance  thrust  upon  her,  making  her  the  centre  of 
observation.  She  was  an  orphan,  and  heir  to  the 
great-grandmother's  land,  cottage,  and  savings,  and 
she  was  easily  the  most  prominent  personage  in  the 
parish.  Yet  she  would  have  foregone  the  elegant 
weight  and  stuffiness  of  her  sable  frocks,  and  all 
claim  to  her  wealth,  to  have  attracted  less  attention 
and  sympathy. 

So  the  presbytere  acquired  a  new  inmate.  And 
within  a  month  it  lost  another. 

The  doctor  had  been  of  opinion,  from  the  first  time  he 
had  been  consulted,  that  Madame  Carmel's  trouble  was 
of  the  heart.  He  considered  that  diagnosis,  and  the  suc 
cessful  outcome  of  his  treatment  of  the  Cur6  on  the 
occasion  of  the  accident  at  the  RiviSre  aux  Trembles,  as 


200  ANNE  CARMEL 

the  two  feathers  in  his  professional  cap.  Madame  fell 
back  on  her  bed  as  she  rose,  one  morning,  and  that 
night  she  died.  There  had  been  no  time  to  send 
farther  for  another  doctor.  And  for  that  matter  there 
had  been  no  money.  The  parish  of  St.  Hilaire  was 
barely  able  to  raise  the  necessary  four  hundred  a  year 
to  pay  its  priest.  And  Jean  Carmel  was  a  poor  man. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been  actually  made  to 
feel  it. 

He  sat  beside  his  mother's  bed  for  three  hours.  The 
chair  was  stiff  and  upright,  but  he  had  not  moved. 
She  was  either  asleep  or  bearing  pain  with  her  eyes 
closed,  and  he  did  not  want  to  disturb  her.  The 
corners  of  her  mouth  were  drawn  down,  there  was  a 
frowning  line  deep  between  her  brows,  and  her  face 
was  leaden  against  the  pillow.  Anne  was  in  another 
room  with  the  doctor  and  the  much-subdued  Yvonne. 
Once  she  came  and  opened  the  door  noiselessly. 
He  turned  his  head  and  motioned  her  away.  Then 
he  resumed  his  waiting,  and  watched  the  rain,  fall 
ing  in  straight  slanting  lines  from  the  sombre  sky, 
frothing  down  the  rough  fork  of  a  tree  just  outside  the 
window. 

He  believed  that  his  mother  had  something  to  say  to 
him.  Until  she  had  closed  her  eyes  she  had  followed 
him  with  them,  and  there  had  been  the  expression  on 
her  face  of  one  who  is  upon  the  very  point  of  speaking, 
but  cannot  make  the  determination.  There  was  the 


ANNE  CAEMEL  201 

same  look  when  she  stirred  at  last.  She  had  not  been 
asleep,  she  said.  He  knew  by  the  twitching  of  her 
mouth  and  the  clenching  of  her  teeth  that  she  was  in 
pain.  He  would  have  gone  for  the  doctor,  but  she  put 
out  her  thin  hand,  cracked,  and  bent  at  the  ringer  tips 
like  that  of  a  much  older  woman.  She  laid  it  on  his, 
and  it  was  cold.  "  Wait,"  she  said,  between  the  tight 
teeth.  He  obeyed,  and  when  the  paroxysm  had  gone 
off  she  drew  him  nearer  and  spoke  to  him.  He  must 
not  let  Cecily  Thome  come  back  to  St.  Hilaire.  Her 
black  eyes,  a  little  wild  and  glassy  now,  were  fixed  on 
his  compellingly.  It  was  the  first  intimation  of  her  dis 
approval  that  he  had  had.  He  was  too  much  a  man 
to  have  possessed  Anne's  comprehension  of  the  unex 
pressed.  He  was  not  intuitive. 

"  She  is  a  woman,"  she  said,  "  the  sort  of  woman  that 
you  could  love.  If  she  is  near  you,  you  will  love  her. 
You  are  ready  for  it  now.  And  .  because  you  are  a 
priest,"  she  stopped  and  fought  for  breath,  her  face  dis 
torted  and  fierce  with  the  strain  —  "  because  you  are  a 
priest,  it  will  mean  one  of  three  things:  unhappiness, 
or  disgrace  —  or  sin." 

He  took  his  hand  from  hers  quickly.  Then  he  forced 
himself  to  put  it  back  again.  After  all,  she  was  dying. 
A  physical  ordeal  would  have  been  easier  for  him  than 
to  have  talked  of  it  to  her,  but  he  overcame  the  repug 
nance.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that  he  tried  to  show  her 
the  impossibility  of  the  thing,  and  even  as  he  did  his 


202  ANNE  CARMEL 

best  to  make  her  see  it,  it  became  less  and  less  evident 
to  himself.  There  are  many  faiths  and  convictions  that 
vanish  when  we  bring  them  out  into  the  air  of  contro 
versy  and  argument,  like  the  genii  of  the  fairy  tales 
that,  once  freed  from  the  bottle,  melted  away  into 
nothing. 

In  the  end  he  promised  what  she  wished  him  to.  It 
was  a  small  matter  to  him  whether  or  not  the  girl 
should  come  again.  And  it  was  a  vital  one  to  his 
mother. 

There  was  another  nearly  as  vital,  it  seemed, — that 
Anne  should  be  married  as  soon  as  possible  now.  To 
that  he  would  not  give  his  promise.  He  held  his  ground 
firmly,  for  all  his  gentleness.  The  marriage  was  a  bad 
one  from  every  point  of  view,  except,  perhaps,  that  of 
retrieving  her  name  in  the  parish.  That  the  man  had 
money,  as  it  was  counted  here,  was  of  no  importance. 
Anne  did  not  love  him,  she  clearly  could  not  and  never 
would.  "  She  cannot  help  realizing  that  she  is  too 
good  for  him,"  he  said. 

"  Too  good !  "  she  answered  impatiently. 

"Yes,"  he  kept  to  it,  "much  too  good." 

"  No,"  said  his  mother,  with  her  bitterness  no  longer 
pent  up,  "it  is  because  she  loves  the  other  one  still." 
He  raised  his  brows.  As  to  that,  he  did  not  know. 
But  the  fact  that  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  Anne 
despised  Tetrault,  remained.  And  all  the  influence 
which  he  felt  one  could  be  justified  in  using  to  change 


ANNE   CARMEL  203 

the  course  of  another's  life,  he  would  use  to  prevent 
the  marriage. 

She  closed  the  hollow,  tragedy-fraught  eyes  again, 
and  he  watched  her  trying  for  breath.  The  struggle 
went  on  for  hours.  Once  there  was  a  cessation,  and 
she  motioned  for  Anne  and  the  doctor  to  go  out  of  the 
room.  She  held  to  her  son's  hand.  Would  he  not  do 
as  she  wished?  "It  is  the  last  thing  I  shall  ever  ask 
of  you,  remember,"  she  was  ungenerous  enough  to  plead. 
He  hesitated.  His  mouth  pressed  into  a  straight  line 
as  he  nerved  himself.  "  I  cannot,"  he  said. 

He  met  full  her  look  of  hard  reproach.  It  was  the 
last  she  gave  him. 

At  sunset  he  and  Anne  knelt  together  beside  the  bed. 
He  rose  from  his  knees  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  bowed 
head.  They  went  over  to  the  window  and  stood  there, 
looking  off  to  where  the  leaves  of  some  distant  elms 
were  stirring  in  the  evening  wind,  high  against  the 
bright  pink  and  violet  of  the  cleared  evening  sky. 
"There  are  only  two  of  us  now,  P'tite  Chose,"  he 
said. 

It  was  almost  a  week  later  that  the  postmistress  gave 
two  letters  to  Monsieur  Carmel.  One  was  for  himself, 
the  other  for  Anne.  Anne's  mail  was  sent  to  the  pres- 
byte~re  now,  with  the  rest.  He  opened  his  own  enve 
lope.  Cecily  Thorne  wrote  that  she  was  already  on  her 
way  to  St.  Hilaire,  by  slow  stages,  walking  much  of  the 


204  ANNE  CARMEL 

way  and  camping  frequently.  He  calculated  the  dates. 
And  he  knew  that  she  could  not  have  received  the  let 
ter  he  had  written  in  fulfilment  of  the  promise  to  his 
mother.  She  had  not  received  it  in  time,  and  would 
not.  She  was  to  be  at  the  village  within  four  days. 
It  could  not  be  helped  now.  He  had  done  his  part, 
but  the  matter  was  taken  out  of  his  hands. 

Anne  had  gone  into  the  churchyard  and  was  plant 
ing  flowers  on  the  new  grave.  The  gate  under  the 
high  stone  arch  was  open,  and  the  rank  grass  and 
violets  were  too  thick  for  his  footfalls  to  be  heard. 
She  had  finished  the  work  and  was  standing,  looking 
down.  Her  black  gown  had  been  opened  at  the  neck 
to  make  the  bending  easier,  and  the  sleeves  were  rolled 
back  above  the  elbow.  She  had  the  strong  throat  and 
long  arms  of  Rossetti's  women,  he  thought.  She  car 
ried  an  old  stone  jug  in  one  hand,  and  a  rusty  case- 
knife  in  the  other.  There  were  earth  stains  to  her 
wrists.  She  did  not  see  him  coming  and  was  off  her 
guard.  The  lines  that  the  past  two  years  had  put 
on  her  face  were  startling.  He  had  not  noticed  them 
until  now.  They  brought  out  a  likeness  to  her  mother, 
and  as  a  rule  there  was  no  resemblance.  He  could  not 
help  knowing  that  it  was  a  better  face  than  Madame 
Carmel's  had  been.  The  trait  in  the  latter  which  had 
made  it  possible  for  her  to  leave  him,  as  a  lifelong 
memory,  that  her  last  look  had  been  one  of  unmerited 
reproach,  was  not  in  Anne. 


ANNE  CARMEL  205 

She  raised  her  head  as  he  stopped  beside  her.  He 
held  out  the  letter.  The  address  was  uppermost.  She 
glanced  down  at  it  indifferently.  He  saw  the  change 
that  came  over  her,  and  he  put  out  his  hand  instinc 
tively.  But  there  was  no  need  for  it.  She  turned  with 
forced  deliberation  and  set  down  the  stone  jug.  Then 
she  took  the  letter.  Her  hand  was  shaking.  She 
raised  her  heavy  lids  slowly  and  met  his  look.  And 
she  answered  the  question  he  would  not  ask.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  "it  is  from  him."  She  left  him  beside  the 
mound  and  went  out  through  the  archway.  He  heard 
the  side  gate  of  the  presbyte*re  garden  close  behind 
her. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

YVONNE  was  under  the  apple  tree  on  the  grass  when 
Jean  Carmel  came  out  upon  the  porch  of  the  pres- 
bytdre.  There  was  a  boy  with  her.  It  was  Etienne, 
youngest  son  of  Coppe'e,  the  violin  virtuoso  of  the 
town.  Etienne's  devotion  to  Yvonne  was  a  matter  of 
six  weeks'  standing  now.  He  spent  his  days  at  the 
presbytere,  and  his  evenings,  if  he  was  allowed  to. 
He  was  her  first  sweetheart,  and,  perhaps,  the  Cure* 
thought,  as  he  watched  the  two  heads  just  visible 
above  the  brilliant  poppy  bed,  perhaps  the  only  one 
she  would  ever  have  to  whom  the  dowry  —  the  fact 
that  she  was  heiress  to  what  was  estimated  as  high 
as  several  thousand  dollars  —  was  not  of  the  least 
consequence.  He  was  disinterested.  It  was  a  case 
of  lion  in  love.  Etienne's  ambition  in  life  hitherto 
had  been  to  join  in  the  games  of  the  bigger  boys,  the 
which  were  not  numerous  nor  skilful.  He  had  left 
all  that  now,  forsaken  it  completely.  He  played 
house,  and  even  dolls,  and  found  it  rather  enjoyable 
on  the  whole.  The  small  human  male's  scorn  of  dolls 
is  pretty  generally  an  affectation,  one  of  his  first  con- 

206 


ANNE  CARMEL  207 

ventional  lies,  and  when  the  feminine  portion  of  the 
nursery  is  not  observing,  he  not  infrequently  is  to  be 
caught  watching  her  mothering  with  longing  eyes. 

Yvonne's  knowledge  of  the  accepted  establishment, 
husband,  wife,  and  children,  was  limited.  Her  bash- 
fulness  had  kept  her  out  of  the  neighbors'  houses  for 
the  most  part.  So  Etienne  had  to  teach  her.  At 
first  it  had  resulted  in  difficulties  of  a  common  enough 
domestic  nature.  As  Etienne  had  observed  the  work 
ing  out  of  things,  the  husband  gave  orders  and  the 
wife,  though  she  might  indeed  protest,  obeyed.  In 
Yvonne's  experience  it  had  been  precisely  the  other 
way.  Her  great-grandmother  had  dominated  the  men 
about  the  place.  And  in  the  presbytSre  there  was  never 
any  question  of  authority  one  way  or  another.  Mon 
sieur  le  Cure*  and  Mademoiselle  Anne  always  wanted 
the  same  thing.  If  you  asked  permission  of  made 
moiselle  and  it  was  granted,  you  can  be  sure  that 
monsieur  would  not  object  and  revoke  it.  And  it 
was  also  the  other  way  round. 

So  Yvonne  was  not  prepared  by  example  to  accept 
the  condition  of  things  which  Etienne  assured  her  was 
the  only  possible  one.  The  reason  why  her  verdict  and 
opinion  were  not  in  every  way  of  as  much  worth  as  his 
could  not  be  made  clear  to  her.  And  she  had  the  firm 
ness  of  a  stolid  nature.  Her  bashfulness  argued  no 
humility  or  poor  opinion  of  herself  whatever.  And, 
besides,  she  was  not  bashful  with  Etienne.  Her  attitude 


208  ANNE  CARMEL 

toward  him  had  been,  from  the  first,  that  of  one  who 
deigns  to  accept  homage.  That  had  been  natural  and 
proper,  of  course,  until  it  had  come  to  playing  house. 
Then  Etienne  had  explained  that  the  positions  were 
necessarily  reversed.  The  which  Yvonne  had  so  densely 
refused  to  see  that  he  had  perforce  given  up  the  exposi 
tion  in  sheer  weariness.  The  housekeeping  was  now 
run  on  the  only  basis  that  the  young  heiress  found  satis 
factory.  She  was  the  mistress,  and  Etienne  did  as  she 
wished  and  provided  for  her  and  his  family  of  two  dolls 
and  the  collie.  Pilote  gave  the  arrangement  her  sanc 
tion,  but  she  had  too  much  to  do,  keeping  track  of 
Monsieur  Carmel,  to  play  with  children. 

The  Cure"  and  Anne  had  derived  no  little  amuse 
ment  from  watching  developments.  And  Anne  had 
rejoiced  in  the  victory  of  her  own  sex  in  a  way  that 
caused  the  much-perplexed  Paul  uneasiness.  Jean 
Carmel  had  watched  the  young  husband's  mild  submis 
sion,  and  acceptance  of  the  secondary  place.  "  That," 
he  opined,  running  his  fingers  through  his  hair  in 
serious  contemplation  of  the  little  human  comedy, 
"that  is  what  we  escape  when  we  retreat  in  time. 
The  only  way  for  us  to  retain  our  pleasing  belief  in 
the  inherent  superiority  of  the  male  is  to  enter  a  mon 
astery  or  the  priesthood,  and  never  put  it  to  the  test." 

The  miniature  household  had  run  with  truly  admi 
rable  smoothness,  for  Yvonne's  stubbornness  was  of 
the  invincibly  amiable  sort.  The  two  played  in  peace, 


ANNE  OARMEL  209 

uninterrupted  by  squabbles.  They  were  doing  so  now 
as  Monsieur  Carmel  stood  on  the  steps  and  watched 
them.  Then  he  went  over  in  their  direction. 

"  Mademoiselle  Thome  is  coming  this  afternoon,"  he 
said.  Yvonne  sat  still  and  looked  up  at  him,  her 
round,  deep  red  mouth,  partly  open,  and  an  expression 
of  attention  in  her  black  eyes.  Etienne  paid  no  heed 
whatever.  He  was  making  the  bed  for  the  oldest  doll. 
"  You  have  heard  my  sister  and  me  speaking  of 
Mademoiselle  Thorne,"  he  reminded.  The  healthy 
countenance  was  still  quite  blank.  If  she  had  heard, 
it  was  evident  that  she  had  not  marked.  "  You  re 
member,"  he  insisted,  "the  demoiselle  who  was  here 
last  summer  when  your  dog  had  the  broken  paw." 
Still  only  the  attentive  black  eyes  and  the  half-open 
crimson  mouth.  "She  had  hair  like  the  color  of  the 
wheat  in  late  August,"  he  tried  it;  but  though  such 
hair  was  surely  sufficiently  different  from  anything  she 
had  ever  been  accustomed  to  seeing  in  St.  Hilaire,  no 
picture  was  called  to  her  mind.  She  knew  the  color 
of  wheat  in  August,  but  she  did  not  know  Cecily 
Thorne.  Either  she  had  been  too  frightened  to  re 
ceive  any  impression  or  there  had  been  one  of  those 
curious  blanks  of  memory  that  are  common  to  child 
hood's  extraordinary  serene  self -absorption.  She  had 
no  recollection  of  any  such  person  as  Monsieur  le  Cure 
tried  to  describe,  and  she  shook  her  round  head. 
"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  he  abandoned  it,  "  we  are  to 


210  ANNE  CARMEL 

have  a  visitor  to-day.  Shall  we  go  and  gather  some 
flowers  for  her  ?  "  This  was  intelligible.  The  two  of 
them  scrambled  to  their  feet  at  once,  and  the  collie 
stood  ready  wagging  its  tail  expectantly.  Etienne  aban 
doned  the  bed-making  and  the  larger  doll.  Yvonne, 
more  mindful  of  parental  responsibilities,  carried  the 
other  by  its  battered  head,  while  its  two  legs  and  one 
arm  jerked  about.  They  set  off  to  where  there  was  a 
meadow  full  of  marguerites. 

The  children  walked  around  in  the  flowers  to  their 
waists,  bending  and  picking  until  their  hands  were 
crowded,  then  making  their  way  over  to  Monsieur 
Carmel,  where  he  sat  reading  in  the  shade  of  a  willow. 
The  afternoon  was  hot,  and  the  beaver  hat  had  been 
laid  aside  as  usual.  Yvonne's  doll  lay  limply  across 
it.  He  gathered  the  flowers  into  a  man's  stiff,  un 
compromising  bunches  and  tied  them  with  the  stems, 
taking  his  time  about  it.  He  had  no  means  of  knowing 
when  the  Thornes  would  reach  the  village,  though  as 
the  probable  moment  had  come  nearer  he  had  given 
way  to  an  ignominious  impulse  to  put  off  the  meet 
ing.  So  he  had  left  the  house  and  called  the 
children  into  service.  In  the  alchemy  of  the  mind 
there  is  sometimes  needed  only  the  one  dropped 
word  to  declare  the  character  of  a  theretofore  doubtful 
sentiment.  And  Madame  Carmel's  warning  had 
effected  it  for  him.  He  did  not  love  Cecily  Thorne, 
so  much  he  was  certain  of ;  but  he  was  ready  to.  It 


ANNE  CARMEL  211 

would  have  been  a  relief  to  have  heard  that  she  was 
not  coming  after  all  —  yet  the  relief  that  lies  in 
having  the  unattainable  removed  from  one's  sight  — 
a  dreary  one  at  best. 

Before  long  he  noticed  that  the  children  had 
stopped  work  and  were  standing  still,  looking  toward 
the  road.  He  turned  his  head  and  looked  too.  Half 
way  across  the  stretch  of  daisies  he  saw  two  women 
coming.  The  quivering  yellow  sunshine  was  in  his 
eyes,  and  for  an  instant  he  had  only  the  impression 
that  one  was  all  dark,  the  other  all  light.  Then  he 
knew  that  they  were  Anne  and  Cecily  Thorne.  They 
would  have  served  for  figures  of  Tragedy  and  Poetry, 
Anne  with  her  head  straight,  and  that  hint  of  the 
defensive  which  had  become  a  habit  now,  her  gown 
black  against  the  waving  stretch  of  flowers,  Cecily 
with  the  forward  bend  of  her  laden  uncovered  head, 
and  the  pale  tan  of  her  dress  taking  light  from  the 
July  sun.  It  had  been  always  in  light  that  he  had  had 
his  impressions  of  her  —  as  she  had  come  into  the  ray 
that  had  pierced  down  among  the  trees  into  the  high 
road;  as  she  had  waited  in  the  doorway  of  the 
presbytSre,  meeting  Anne's  repellent  look  from  out 
the  shadow;  as  she  had  stood  under  the  shadow 
of  the  new-budding  oak  in  the  midst  of  the  riverside 
meadow;  as  he  had  seen  her  going  along  the  street 
of  the  village,  out  of  his  world,  back  to  hers  —  and 
now,  in  this  glare  of  bright  white  and  gold.  He 


212  ANNE  CARMEL 

glanced  at  the  children.  Etienne  had  tried  to  drag 
Yvonne  forward  to  do  her  duty,  but  she  was  seized 
with  another  stroke  of  bashfulness.  He  still  held  her 
by  one  of  the  fat,  green-stained  hands  and  was  doing 
his  best  to  pull  her  up  from  where  she  had  plumped 
down  upon  the  ground  in  her  dismay,  her  face  round, 
wooden,  and  red,  submerged  in  the  marguerites. 

Jean  Carmel  strode  over  to  her  and  flung  her  aloft 
upon  his  shoulders.  Etienne  went  by  his  side,  and  so, 
reenforced,  he  ploughed  his  way  over  to  Anne  and 
Cecily  through  the  knee-high  field  of  flowers. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  cabin  which  had  once  been  Marcelin  Seailles' 
was  deserted  now.  Old  Marie  was  living  with  Coppee. 
As  a  partial  offset  to  the  cost  of  the  useless  addition  to 
an  already  fair-sized  family,  Coppee  had  possessed  him 
self  of  all  in  the  place  from  the  iron  pot  and  hook  in 
the  hearth  to  the  rough  board  bed  with  its  high  sides, 
and  the  square  wooden  seats.  The  room  was  empty  of 
everything,  but  a  short,  thick  log  set  on  end,  which 
had  served  as  a  stool,  and  a  bench  of  an  old  axe- 
smoothed  board  nailed  against  the  wall. 

Harnett  stood  and  looked  around.  There  was  the 
chill  mustiness  of  all  abandoned  rooms,  although  it 
was  a  hot  summer  midmorning.  He  had  shut  the 
clumsy  door  behind  him,  and  the  one  window  was 
small,  grime-covered,  and  cobwebbed,  so  that  it  let 
in  little  light.  He  walked  over  to  it.  The  sill  was  thick 
with  brittle  dead  flies  and  mosquitoes.  He  was  a  man 
to  be  influenced  by  his  surroundings.  And  these  were 
depressing.  So  was  the  long  waiting.  A  squirrel  came 
out  into  the  weed-grown  clearing  in  front  of  the  cabin 
and  ran  back  and  forth,  or  sat  up  suddenly,  quivering 

213 


214  ANNE  CARMEL 

its  nose  as  it  scented  humanity.  He  watched  it.  After 
a  time  he  went  to  the  bench  against  the  wall  and  sat 
there,  bending  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  hands 
hanging.  In  the  silence  he  could  hear  the  blood  sing 
ing  in  his  own  ears. 

When  almost  an  hour  had  gone  by,  he  got  up  and 
went  back  to  the  window.  Even  the  squirrel  was  not 
in  sight  now.  There  was  nothing  but  the  clearing, 
fast  being  eaten  up  by  the  encroaching  forest  again, 
since  even  this  soon  two  or  three  young  red-maple 
shoots  had  a  good  start  beyond  the  dense  green  of 
the  trees  a  few  yards  away,  —  Nature  vanquishing 
man,  as  always,  patiently,  quietly  denying  his  con 
ceited  claim  to  dominion  over  all  the  earth  and  over 
"every  creeping  thing  that  creepeth  upon  the  earth"; 
persistent,  as  slow  as  the  moving  of  her  glaciers  which 
had  ground  smooth  the  surface  of  that  rock  at  the  edge 
of  the  open  —  as  irresistible.  Where  was  the  use  of 
attempting  to  evade  her?  You  yourself  might  succeed 
for  the  very  reason  that  you  were  so  grotesquely  short 
lived,  the  mere  individual  of  whom  she  in  her  concern 
of  the  species  made  small  account.  Yet  her  principles 
would  be  quite  unchanged  and  unaffected.  You  cleared 
your  patch  in  the  forest.  When  you  had  yourself 
gone  the  way  of  the  leaves  of  the  year  before,  the 
forest  would  return.  You  defeated  your  love.  But 
the  instinct  would  have  its  way  with  the  race.  And  to 
what  purpose  would  have  been  the  desperate  wretched 


ANNE   CARMBL  215 

struggle  of  an  atom  of  humanity  driven  by  a  figment 
of  its  own  brain  to  opposing  a  cosmic  force  ?  "  A  wave 
of  the  great  waves  of  Destiny,  convulsed  at  a  checked 
impulse  of  the  heart "  —  yet  why  check  it  when  all  the 
others  would  come  rolling  and  surging  on  precisely 
the  same? 

The  branches  and  foliage  were  not  stirring  in  the 
warm  morning,  though  there  was  sometimes  a  flicker  of 
wings  back  among  them.  If  there  were  a  sound  in  the 
woods,  it  did  not  come  into  the  cabin.  The  traces  of 
where  two  paths  emerged  into  the  clearing  were  still 
fairly  plain,  though  the  undergrowth  and  higher  boughs 
were  filling  them  up.  Before  long  he  knew  that  some 
thing  dark  was  moving  along  one.  He  drew  back  out 
of  sight  and  thought  hurriedly  of  what  his  best  course 
would  be  in  the  event  of  any  one  trying  to  get  in. 

Anne  came  into  the  open  space,  gave  a  quick  look 
around,  and  at  the  window,  then  pushed  open  the  door, 
shut  it  again,  and  faced  him. 

Half  the  width  of  the  cabin  was  between  them,  and 
she  was  in  the  shadow.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  He 
was  the  first  to  move.  He  went  toward  her  with  both  his 
hands  held  out.  She  drew  back,  and  he  stopped,  drop 
ping  his  arms  at  his  sides.  "Very  well,"  he  said 
coldly.  "You  are  probably  right.  I  thought,"  he 
added,  "that  you  had  decided  not  to  come." 

"I  wrote  you  that  I  would,"  she  told  him.  "It  was 
not  easy  to  get  away.  I  had  to  wait  my  chance,  and  I 


216  ANNE  CAKMEL 

was  delayed.  I  must  be  back  before  noon.  And  now 
that  I  am  here  —  what  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

He  turned  away  and  walked  to  the  farther  corner. 
"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  —  "unless  it  is  you." 
Their  eyes  met  again.  He  saw  in  hers  the  unhappiness 
he  had  put  there  ;  and  she  saw  in  his  one  of  which  she 
had  no  knowledge,  yet  against  which  she  could  tell  that 
he  was  in  rebellion. 

"  You  have  been  a  long  time  deciding  that,"  she  said. 
She  was  not  bitter,  hardly  even  reproachful. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  have  been  a  long  time. 
Why,"  he  asked  her  abruptly,  "why  did  you  stop 
writing  to  me  ?  " 

"  Don't  do  that,  please,"  she  said  quietly.  "  Don't  try 
to  shift  any  of  the  responsibility  on  me.  If  you  are 
not  going  to  be  honest  with  yourself, —  with  us  both, — 
I  may  as  well  go  back  now.  You  know  why  I  did  not 
write." 

"  At  least,"  he  insisted,  "  you  might  have  let  me 
know  that  you  had  done  with  me.  You  might  have 
given  me  the  chance  to  defend  myself,  Anne." 

"  I  might  have  complained —  ?  "  She  shook  her  head. 
"My  love  was  too  good  to  beg  even  you  to  keep  it." 

"  But  I  imagined  all  manner  of  things  —  and,  God 
knows,  I  had  enough  to  worry  me  without  that.  I 
thought  perhaps  your  letters  or  mine  were  miscarrying 
—  or  that  you  had  stopped  caring  for  me." 

"  You  didn't  really  think  that,"  she  corrected  him, 


ANNE  CAEMEL  217 

confidently.  "  You  were  only  willing  to  let  yourself  try 
to." 

She  crossed  over  to  the  log  and  sat  on  it,  in  front  of 
the  black  and  empty  fireplace.  "  It  is  very  curious  how 
one  can  lie  to  oneself,"  she  said  reflectively.  It  was 
hardly  an  original  bit  of  philosophizing,  but  the  per 
sonal  tone  struck  him. 

"  Have  you  done  it  ?  "  he  questioned. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  As  to  what  ?  "  he  wanted  to  know. 

"  As  to  my  doing  well  enough  by  marrying  a  man  I 
detest." 

He  started.     "  You  are  not  married  —  Anne  ?  " 

"No,"  she  told  him  ;  " I  am  to  be." 

His  face  darkened.     "  To  whom  ?  " 

"To  Paul  Tetrault." 

He  burst  out  with  an  unpleasant  laugh.  Then  he 
checked  himself.  "  Are  you  going  to  give  yourself 
to  —  that  pink  and  white,  frizzed  petit  maitre  of  a 
habitant  parish?  Is  he  going  to  have  the  right  to 
call  your  fine  soul  and  beautiful  body  his  ?  Is  he  to 
have  those  long  firm  hands  of  yours  for  his  property, 
and  to  bury  his  own  thick,  ring-covered,  peasant  ones 
in  all  that  mass  of  brown  hair  of  yours  ?  Good  God, 
Anne  I  you  might  better  have  come  to  me  on  any 
terms.  It  would  have  been  less  indecent,  less  disgust 
ing —  much  less  wrong." 

"  I  was  ready  to,"  she  reminded  him. 


218  ANNE   CARMEL 

He  went  over  to  the  bench  and  put  one  foot  upon  it, 
leaning  on  his  raised  knee.  "Are  you  ready  to  now  ?  " 
he  asked  deliberately,  watching  her  closely. 

"  Is  that  what  you  came  for  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  repeated,  frowning  uncertainly. 
He  seemed  to  be  thinking,  and  she  sat  waiting  im 
movably.  "  You  remember,"  he  began,  "  the  first  time 
I  met  you — the  evening  when  I  came  upon  you  among 
these  birches  by  the  river  —  and  afterwards  when  you 
walked  down  the  path  through  the  garden  and  the 
deep  red  dahlias  ?  You  remember  that  I  went  away 
the  next  day  ?  I  had  no  notion  then  of  returning.  I 
hadn't  thought  about  you  at  all,  except  as  an  uncom 
monly  handsome  girl,  and  not  at  all  the  sort  I  had  found 
in  other  small  parishes.  Then,  the  first  thing  I  knew, 
I  was  back  at  St.  Hilaire,  and  over  at  the  village  on 
a  trivial  excuse.  I  hadn't  intended  going  there. 
But  I  went  as  irresistibly  as  a  man  who  is  lost  in  a 
blizzard  walks  in  a  circle.  And  that  is  about  how 
I've  done  it  this  time.  Only  this  time  I  knew  I 
wanted  to  see  you,  and  then  I  didn't. 

"  Wanted  to  see  you  !  "  He  stood  straight  suddenly. 
"  You  can't  think  how  I've  wanted  it.  Some  men  will 
drink  when  they  hate  themselves  for  it,  could  almost 
kill  themselves  to  escape  it  —  and  do  very  often  — 
when  they  know  it  is  their  ruin.  And  even  that  is  as 
nothing  to  this."  He  waited  a  minute,  then  went  back 
to  his  position  with  one  foot  on  the  bench. 


ANNE  CARMEL  219 

"  I  was  told  that  I  had  to  come  over  here  on  business," 
he  went  on,  holding  himself  down  to  quiet.  "  It  was  my 
uncle  who  sent  me.  I  objected  —  oh,  yes  !  I  objected, 
but  just  short  of  enough  to  make  him  send  some  one 
else.  He  would  have  done  it  if  I'd  showed  him  I  was  in 
real  earnest.  The  trouble  was  —  I  was  mightily  afraid 
he  would.  Otherwise  I  should  have  told  him  why  it 
was  best  for  me  not  to  be  in  this  part  of  the  world,  and 
he'd  have  been  only  too  quick  to  save  me.  I  question 
if  we  ever  mean  from  the  bottom  of  our  hearts,  '  lead  us 
not  into  temptation.'  I  didn't,  at  any  rate.  If  any  one 
had  tried  to  lead  me  off  from  it,  I'd  probably  have 
broken  away  and  worked  up  a  fiction  for  my  own 
satisfaction  to  the  effect  that  avoiding  a  danger  was  un 
worthy."  His  lip  raised  in  disdain  of  himself.  "How 
ever,  I  said  I'd  rather  not  come  over  ;  and  at  the  first 
indication  of  his  taking  me  at  my  word,  I  had  my  traps 
ready  inside  of  two  hours.  He  commended  my  willing 
ness  and  alacrity.  And  it  never  entered  his  politics- 
filled  mind  that  it  might  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
woman  he'd  refused  his  consent  to  having  me  marry." 

"  Then  —  "  Anne  began  and  stopped. 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  "  You  mean  did 
I  ever  ask  the  permission  ?  Yes ;  I  asked  it.  And  I  got 
the  answer  I  fully  expected,  of  course.  When  I  stuck  to  it 
rather  doggedly  he  was  so  good  as  to  tell  me  that  I  was 
of  age  and  could  follow  my  own  picturesque  fancy  if  I 
chose  to,  and  that  if  I  were  determined  to  he  would  give 


220  ANNE  CARMEL 

me  for  wedding  present  the  cash  I  had  in  my  pocket, 
which  was  ten  pounds  just  then,  and  the  clothes  I  had 
in  my  wardrobe."  His  fingers  played  an  angry  tattoo 
on  the  wall,  and  he  gave  a  sneering  laugh.  "  But  I 
began  to  tell  you  how  I  came  here.  When  I  was  on  the 
steamer  I  made  all  manner  of  solemn  vows  that  I  would 
attend  to  my  business  in  the  cities  and  then  go  down  to 
the  States  direct.  Part  of  my  errand  takes  me  there, 
too.  I  knew  all  the  while  that  I  wouldn't  do  anything 
of  the  sort.  When  I  finished  the  business  —  and  I 
dragged  it  out  unconscionably  in  the  daytime  by  every 
ingenious  device,  although  I  lay  awake  at  night  thrash 
ing  around  in  my  impatience  to  have  done  with  it  — 
when  I  finished  the  business,  I  went  posting  down  to  buy 
my  ticket  for  the  States.  I  didn't  buy  it.  I  asked  some 
questions  and  said  I  would  be  back.  Then  I  went  to 
the  hotel  and  wrote  to  you.  I  waited  until  you  answered, 
but  I'd  have  come  here  whether  you  had  or  not.  I 
almost  made  up  my  mind  not  to  lose  the  time,  as  it  was. 
I  did  some  more  convincing  myself  that  I  only  wanted 
to  see  how  you  were  and  try  to  set  myself  a  little  right 
with  you  and  explain  things  if  you  despised  me  —  or  if 
you  didn't  despise  me,  to  try  and  show  you  that  you 
ought  to."  He  began  to  walk  back  and  forth  across  the 
boards,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  head  down. 
Anne  was  not  watching  him.  She  was  looking  into 
the  blackened  fireplace. 

"  I  assured  myself  I  had  only  the  most  indifferently 


ANNE  CARMEL  221 

friendly  feeling  for  you,  such  as  any  man  would  be 
likely  to  have  for  a  girl  who  had  once  been  a  great 
deal  to  him  and  who  had  loved  him.  I  simply  wanted 
to  smooth  things  out  and  show  my  good  inclinations. 
I  didn't  want  to  leave  you  with  any  bitterness  or  re 
grets.  And  I  owed  you  some  sort  of  explanation  of  — 
a  good  many  things.  Yes  —  as  you  say,  it  is  extraordi 
nary  how  you  can  lie  to  yourself  and  believe  it,  though 
it  may  all  be  so  specious  and  flimsy  that  if  you  were  to 
tell  any  one  else,  he'd  laugh  in  your  face." 

He  came  in  front  of  her  and  stopped.  "  Look  up  at 
me,"  he  commanded,  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder 
heavily.  "  Do  you  still  care  for  me,  Anne  ?  " 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  whistling  of  a  bird 
in  the  forest  came  faintly  in  to  them.  He  caught  her 
two  hands  from  her  lap  and  held  them  to  his  face  and 
lips.  Then  he  dropped  them  roughly  and  went  away 
to  the  window.  In  one  of  those  blanks  of  respite  that 
come  to  the  mind's  pain,  as  well  as  to  the  body's,  he 
noticed  the  dead  flies  and  mosquitoes  again,  and  felt 
the  dreariness  of  the  spot.  He  took  a  burnt  match 
which  lay  on  the  sill  and  traced  a  spiral  in  the  caked 
dust  of  the  panes. 

He  threw  the  match  away  and  faced  around. 

"  Anne  —  I  am  married,"  he  said. 

He  watched  a  twitching,  meaningless  smile  come 
over  her  mouth.  Her  whole  face  contracted  once, 
and  was  quiet.  He  had  been  close,  at  one  time,  to 


222  ANNE  CAEMEL 

a  man  who  had  been  shot  cleanly  through  the  heart. 
And  the  man  had  done  just  that. 

There  was  another  long  silence.  He  stood  by  her 
and  put  his  hand  on  her  head.  She  did  not  move. 
"  Shall  I  go  away  now  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Or  will  you  let 
me  tell  you  —  let  me  set  myself  right  the  little  I  can  ?  " 
He  took  it  for  consent  that  she  did  not  answer.  He 
bent  over  and  looked  into  her  face.  She  was  not  cry 
ing.  There  were  no  tears  in  the  wide  gray  eyes.  They 
did  not  seem  to  see  him.  "  Anne  !  "  he  spoke  uneasily. 

"  Yes,  tell  me,"  she  said.     "  It  doesn't  matter." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  she  was  passive. 
"  Have  I  broken  your  heart,  dear  ? "  he  said.  There 
was  the  twitching,  blank  half -smile  again,  but  the  eyes 
were  as  without  expression  as  if  she  had  been  blind. 

"  I  thought  it  was  broken  a  long  while  ago,"  she  told 
him.  "  But  I  must  have  had  some  hope  without  quite 
realizing  it  —  a  very  little." 

"  And  now  you  have  none  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  faint 
note  of  dissatisfaction. 

"  How  could  I  have  ?  "  she  asked  monotonously. 

He  left  her  and  crossed  again  to  the  board  against 
the  wall,  sitting  on  it,  and  clasping  his  hands  about  his 
knees.  "  Do  you  recall  that  I  told  you  once  when  we 
were  talking  over — our  future — that  it  was  planned  for 
me  to  marry  some  one,  with  the  choosing  of  whom  I  had 
had  nothing  whatever  to  do  ?  " 

She  nodded  mechanically. 


ANNE  CAEMEL  223 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  tried  to  make  you  understand 
that  the  thing  is  done  now  and  then  in  England, — 
in  all  old  countries.  Your  men  and  women  here  in  the 
New  World  won't  put  up  with  it ;  and  as  one  never  has 
to  put  up  with  anything  when  one  won't,  they  don't 
have  to.  Conditions  are  different  here,  too,  and  that 
counts  for  a  good  deal,  though  perhaps  it  oughtn't  to. 
Circumstances  aren't  like  the  good  old  mediaeval  tor 
ture,  which  kept  a  man  from  just  stretching  out  to  his 
full  stature  in  any  direction.  There  isn't  the  screw- 
pressure  of  generations  of  tradition  brought  to  bear  on 
him."  He  looked  at  her  to  see  if  she  was  understand 
ing,  but  her  face  told  nothing. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  from  the  time  that  I  went  to 
my  uncle's  care,  from  the  time  I  was  half  a  dozen  years 
old,  it  was  planned  that  I  was  to  marry  the  girl.  She 
hadn't  been  out  of  swaddling  clothes  quite  as  long  as  I 
had.  There  were  all  manner  of  reasons  for  our  mar 
riage,  except  only  the  entirely  trivial  one  of  our  caring 
for  one  another.  And  we  were  to  have  been  joined 
together  when  I  should  have  been  twenty-one  and  she 
nineteen.  It  was  an  ideal  arrangement.  Only  unfor 
tunately  we  didn't  fit  in  with  the  plans  altogether.  I 
wasn't  sure  what  her  attitude  was,  and  I  didn't  take 
the  trouble  to  find  out.  When  the  time  appointed  for 
the  engagement  came  around,  I  was  absorbed  in  an 
infatuation.  I  was  twenty,  and  I  was  sure  I  had  found 
the  only  woman  I  could  ever  think  about  for  a  moment. 


224  ANNE  CARMEL 

She  was  nobody  at  all,  so  I  was  torn  away  from  her 
and  sent  a-travelling.  Long  before  I  got  back  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  her,  of  course.  But  I  wasn't  any 
more  inclined  to  marry,  as  it  was  arranged  for  me, 
than  I  had  ever  been.  The  matter  wasn't  pressed. 
So  it  slid  on  that  way  from  year  to  year,  until  after 
I  had  known  you  and  gone  home." 

He  changed  his  position,  clasping  his  hands  behind 
his  head  and  leaning  against  the  split  logs  of  the  wall. 
"  I  wrote  you  that  I  had  to  go  on  a  visit  ? "  She 
nodded  again.  "  It  was  to  her  place.  And  I  wrote 
you  that  our  house  was  filled  with  people.  She  and 
her  mother  and  her  relatives  and  backers  generally, 
they  were.  Every  one  of  them  were  after  me  in  one 
fashion  or  another."  He  turned  quickly.  "All  but 
herself,  that  is.  It  was  none  of  her  fault,  poor  girl." 
If  she  had  doubted  all  his  words,  she  could  not  have 
doubted  the  cool  pity  of  the  tone,  the  mere  sympathy 
and  fellow-feeling. 

"  Then  my  uncle  came  after  me  with  some  gentle  per 
suasion  in  the  shape  of  my  duty  to  myself  and  the  girl 
and  the  generation  yet  unborn.  He  enforced  it  with 
some  ambitious  inducements,  a  good  beginning  in  life 
generally — and  some  financial  considerations.  I  evaded 
the  issue  even  then.  And  after  that  there  came  the  ill 
ness  I  wrote  you  of."  He  looked  at  her  gravely.  "It  was 
the  time  that  I  needed  your  letters  the  most  —  and  your 
faith.  The  time  that  every  pressure  was  being  brought 


ANNE  CARMEL  225 

to  bear  on  me.  A  great  deal  is  my  fault.  But  that 
much  is  yours.  I  admit  you  had  your  justification'. 
Only  you  were  in  no  position  to  judge  of  me  and  my 
actions.  If  you  had  trusted  me,  even  when  I  seemed 
most  untrustworthy,  it  might  have  been  better."  He 
could  see  that  it  had  its  effect,  and  hers  was  of  those 
generous  characters  to  which  there  is  no  appeal  so  pow 
erful  as  that  they  have  been  unkind  or  unjust. 

"So  then,"  he  said,  "when  he  was  up  and  about 
again,  and  back  at  the  subject,  I  brought  myself  to  it 
and  told  him  I  wanted  to  marry  you.  He  wouldn't 
even  so  much  as  take  it  seriously  at  first.  A  Roman 
Catholic  priest's  penniless  sister,  dwelling  among  the 
mountains  —  and  beautiful !  Yes,  he  could  believe  that 
she  might  be  beautiful;  some  of  the  most  alluring  women 
he  had  ever  seen  in  any  part  of  the  world  he  admitted, 
had  been  the  better  class  French-Canadians.  He  said 
it  was  delightful,  and  all  that  could  be  desired  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  picturesque ;  altogether  on  the  russet 
gown  and  single  rose  order."  His  voice  was  angry 
with  recollection  of  the  sarcasm.  "  When  I  grew  per 
sistent,  he  changed  his  tactics.  I  might  have  my  ten 
pounds  and  you,  by  all  means,  if  I  were  determined  upon 
it."  He  stopped.  "I  wonder  if  you've  faith  enough 
in  me  left,  to  believe  that  I  wish  now,  I  had  ? "  He 
was  walking  back  and  forth  again. 

She  looked  away  from  the  fireplace  and  at  his  face. 
The  dim  light  from  the  window  was  on  it,  and  she  could 


226  ANNE   CAKMEL 

see  it  well.  There  was  showing  all  the  harrying  of  the 
time  he  was  telling  her  about.  He  looked  hunted  and 
driven.  His  blue  eye  had  grown  slate-color  and  hard. 
"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  believe  that.  Yet,  if  you 
were  to  have  it  to  do  over  again  to-morrow  —  I  wonder 
if  you  would  not  do  the  same  thing  ?  " 

He  laughed  shortly.  She  had  herself  and  the  sit 
uation  very  fairly  in  hand  —  and  himself,  too.  She 
was  sure  of  herself,  for  all  that  she  was  unhappy.  A 
woman  sure  of  herself  and  not  foolishly  innocent  was 
well  armed.  "  You  have  grown  sceptical ; "  he  fell  into 
sarcasm  himself.  "  Your  knowledge  of  me  has  broad 
ened.  And  I  have  only  myself  to  thank  for  it.  Well  — 
perhaps  I  might.  I  have  never  shown  so  much  strength 
of  purpose  that  you  could  be  justified  in  putting  un 
limited  belief  in  me,  certainly."  He  went  on  with  his 
restless  walking.  "  To  continue  the  story,  then :  I 
stormed  and  raised  merry  Cain  to  an  extent,  but  he 
isn't  the  man  to  be  moved  by  anything  of  that  kind. 
He  added  up  a  column  of  figures,  statistics,  while  I 
raved  about  the  primitive  rights  of  man.  And  when 
he  had  finished,  he  suggested  that  Werther  and  the 
Nouvelle  Heloise  style  were  obsolete." 

There  was  a  sound  outside  the  cabin.  Harnett 
crossed  softly  and  quickly  to  the  window.  "  It's  a 
man,"  he  said,  whispering.  She  had  disappeared  into 
the  lean-to,  already.  He  slid  the  clumsy  wooden  bolt 
quietly;  then  waited  ready  to  resist  if  it  should  be 


ANNE  CAEMEL  227 

forced.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  stood  to  her  as  a 
protector.  Her  certainty  of  herself  weakened  as  she 
watched  him.  He  had  already  appealed  to  her  gener 
osity,  and  now  it  was  to  her  femininity. 

The  attempt  on  the  door  was  given  over.  A  face 
was  pressed  to  the  window,  but  the  cabin  was  almost 
dark,  and  the  corner  where  Harnett  stood  was  not  vis 
ible  from  there.  The  man  went  away  and  plunged 
in  among  the  trees.  Anne  came  out.  "It  was  An- 
toine,"  she  said.  "  He  used  to  come  here  to  stay  with 
Seailles  when  he  was  in  the  neighborhood." 

She  leaned  against  the  chimney  now  instead  of  taking 
the  log  stool  again.  Harnett  went  on  with  the  account : 
"I  came  down  by  degrees  from  my  lofty  flights,"  he 
said,  "  I  might  tell  you  that  it  was  for  the  girl's  sake  — 
or  from  a  sense  of  duty.  But  I  am  not  trying  to  color  it 
prettily  —  and  it  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  that  I 
was  ambitious  and  was  unwilling  to  give  up  what  I  had 
been  born  to,  what  I  was  accustomed  to  having.  He 
had  the  girl  and  her  supporters  at  the  house  again, 
and  before  the  house-party  broke  up,  I  was  engaged." 
He  saw  a  question  on  Anne's  face. 

"  Are  you  wondering  why  I  didn't  come  for  you 
whether  or  no,  as  we  had  agreed?  You  may  not  believe 
it,  but  I  have  my  better  moments  —  have  had,  at  any 
rate.  I  thought  of  it.  I  was  within  an  inch  of  doing 
it.  Once  I  even  made  some  arrangements.  Then  I  told 
myself  that  the  only  thing  I  could  do  for  you  which 


228  ANNE  CAEMEL 

would  really  be  worthy  the  name  of  love  —  would  be 
not  to  lose  you  body  and  soul.  I  was  right,  too.  For 
once  I  didn't  consider  myself,  and  I  was  right.  We 
had  drifted  apart,  and  you  hadn't  answered  my  letters. 
Not  that  they  deserved  answering,  I  admit.  You  might 
have  forgotten  me,  or  found  you  didn't  care  for  me  so 
much  after  all.  Perhaps  you'd  come  to  despise  me. 
Whatever  it  was  —  you  were  a  good  woman  and  de 
served  a  last  vestige  of  respect  from  me."  She  turned 
to  him  with  a  look  he  had  not  seen  since  the  days,  two 
years  gone  by,  when  he  had  come  to  the  meeting  places, 
—  a  look  of  so  much  happiness  that  he  cut  himself  off 
abruptly. 

"  Did  you  always  think  of  me  as  good,  never  that  I 
was  like  any  other  who  —  "  she  hesitated. 

"  Except  that  one  time  when  I  listened  to  the  Tetrault 
hag  and  let  you  meet  me  at  the  quarry,  Anne  —  except 
that  one  time  I  had  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  of 
you."  The  first  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  But  there 
was  a  smile  behind  them. 

"  And  then,"  he  said,  "  I  knew  very  well  that, 
though  you  had  sworn  the  contrary,  if  I  were  to  have 
given  up  everything  and  come  back  here  and  have  made 
you  marry  me,  you  couldn't  have  withstood  me."  She 
started  to  protest.  "No,  you  couldn't,"  he  contra 
dicted.  "You  would  have  married  me,  and  I  was 
perfectly  aware  of  it.  I  was  afraid  of  being  a  beg 
gar,  or  the  next  thing  to  it.  And  my  world  had  a 


ANNE  CARMEL  229 

great  deal  to  offer  me.  Oh !  I  have  had  my  chance," 
he  said  bitterly.  "  I've  had  my  chance  to  marry  the 
woman  I  should  have  taken — the  one  that  was  meant 
for  me  —  if  you  believe  in  that.  But  I  considered 
money  and  a  few  other  things.  I  sold  what  I  was 
entitled  to." 

She  remembered  Jean's  argument  of  long  before,  when 
they  had  talked  together  in  the  lamplight  after  their 
mother  had  left  them  alone.  "Your  birthright,"  she 
said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  bartered  it ;  and  now  I  am 
weak  enough  to  make  complaint." 

"  So  I  was  duly  married,"  he  brought  about  the  con 
clusion.  "  That  evening,  when  we  were  alone  —  there 
was  an  explanation."  He  took  his  place  on  the  bench 
once  more,  with  his  hands  about  his  knee,  and  watched 
his  foot  swinging,  with  considerable  apparent  interest. 
"  We  did  each  other  the  one  possible  service,  and  told 
the  whole  truth.  She  let  me  know  that  she  had  been 
forced  to  the  marriage  quite  as  neatly  as  I  had,  and  that 
there  was  another  chap  —  had  been  for  years.  He  was 
poor,  poor  devil.  I  could  more  or  less  parallel  the 
case,  with  just  a  reversal  of  the  sexes.  The  beauty  of 
the  situation  was  something  appalling."  He  shifted 
his  position  and  sat  as  he  had  while  he  had  been  wait 
ing  for  her,  his  hands  hanging  inertly  and  his  head 
down. 

"  However,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  came  hard,  "  they 


230  ANNE  CARMEL 

had  got  what  they  wanted  —  all  but  we  two.  The  for 
tunes  and  the  estates  were  married.  They  wonder 
occasionally,  I  have  been  told,  why  we  neither  of  us 
seem  as  ecstatically  happy  as  we  might  surely  be  ex 
pected  to."  He  was  silent  for  a  long  minute.  "The 
first  time  I  saw  you,  and  thought  of  you,  Anne,"  he 
said  dully,  "  it  was  to  fancy  you  as  the  type  of  a  fine 
motherhood.  I  have  no  child." 

He  felt  her  coming  deliberately  toward  him,  and  saw 
the  bottom  of  her  black  skirt  on  the  dusty  boards,  as 
she  stopped  in  front  of  him.  Yet  he  did  not  look  up 
at  once.  She  stood  there,  and  he  raised  his  eyes  wearily, 
indifferently. 

A  ray  of  the  morning  sunlight  had  reached  the  dusty 
window,  and  it  fell  through,  deadened,  straight  upon 
his  face,  haggard  and  worn,  with  all  the  youth  gone. 

She  put  out  her  two  hands.  For  a  moment  he 
seemed  to  doubt  her  meaning.  Then  he  took  them. 
He  rose  slowly,  and  as  slowly  he  took  off  her  hat  and 
dropped  it  on  the  floor,  drew  her  into  his  arms,  and 
kissed  her. 

After  a  time  her  head  lay  on  his  shoulder  ;  her  eyes 
were  closed  and  her  lips  apart.  His  cheek  rested 
against  the  warm  thickness  of  her  hair. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  is  a  commonplace  of  human  nature  that  character 
istics  entirely  foreign  to  one's  own  are  frequently  those 
which  most  arouse  one's  admiration.  And  it  was  pos 
sibly  because  his  every  trait  was  opposed  to  the  require 
ments  of  the  "  Manual  of  Spiritual  Exercises,"  and  to 
the  maxims  and  ethics  of  the  ex-soldier  of  Pampeluna 
that  Jean  Carmel  found  much  to  admire  in  both  the 
theory  and  history  of  that  Company  of  Jesus  —  opposed 
of  popes  —  which  from  the  first  has  lurked  behind  mas 
sacres  and  murders,  yet  has  instituted  the  reformation 
of  morals  within  the  church,  which  has  poured  out  its 
best  blood  on  the  soil  of  foreign  missions,  the  while  it 
stooped  to  assimilation  with  the  faiths  of  the  idolaters 
it  would  have  won,  and  which,  for  all  the  ingenious 
militarism  of  its  organization,  has  met  so  often  with  the 
final  failure  of  its  most  ambitious  aims. 

He  was  himself  too  normal  and  healthy-minded  a 
man  not  to  class  the  visions  of  the  Jesuit  novitiate 
as  aberrations  brought  about  by  solitary  confinement 
and  an  overwrought  brain.  And  the  right  to  one's 
own  conscience,  the  obligation  to  follow  it,  was  the 

231 


232  ANNE  CARMEL 

rule  upon  which  he  had  led  his  life  and  done  his  work 
as  a  priest.  Yet  he  knew  that  it  must  needs  be  not 
a  weakling,  but  a  man  of  strength  above  the  average, 
who  can  give  up  his  will  to  be  broken  on  the  wheel 
of  discipline  and  espionage,  and  submit  it  to  another 
so  completely  that  it  ceases  in  the  end  to  exist.  And 
it  was  that  strength  —  though  its  results  were  repulsive 
to  his  own  uncompromising  honesty  —  which  held  a 
powerful  attraction  for  him.  It  was  born  of  a  sense 
of  duty.  Men  did  not  li ve  the  lives  of  Jogues,  Bres- 
sani,  or  Bre*bceuf,  nor  die  their  deaths,  with  a  meaner 
motive.  And  though  it  might  have  led,  upon  the  one 
hand,  to  the  treachery,  deceit,  and  falsehood  which  has 
made  the  name  of  Jesuitry  the  synonyme  for  baseness, 
on  the  other  it  had  led  to  a  tale  of  adventures  such  as 
no  writer  of  romance  would  dare  or  imagine,  of  a  hero 
ism  to  the  conception  of  which  the  poets  of  early  civil 
izations  never  reached,  a  great  tragedy  of  suffering, 
devotion,  bigotry,  and  self-immolation  acted  by  the 
light  of  the  fires  of  human  martyrdom  against  the  dark 
scenery  of  the  mountains  and  forests  of  savage  new 
worlds. 

It  was  the  tale  he  was  reading  now  in  the  volume 
of  a  long  dead  historian  whose  quaint  French  might 
have  been  anything  but  easy  for  one  not  used  to  it. 
But  Jean  Carmel  had  read  much  of  the  same  sort  in 
ancient  tomes  from  the  priests'  libraries  in  the  cities. 
He  knew  the  history  of  his  country  in  all  its  phases 


ANNE  CARMEL  233 

and  in  its  spirit,  that  necessary  foundation  to  the 
thorough  knowing  of  oneself. 

"  It  must  have  its  effect  upon  the  people  of  to-day 
that  the  people  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centu 
ries  founded  the  nation  by  the  impulse  of  religion  and 
superstition  and  adventure,"  he  had  said  in  the  earlier 
evening  to  Cecily  Thorne.  "In  the  stories  of  your 
country  and  mine  there  is  the  essential  difference  that 
the  one  was  born  of  intellect,  the  other  of  the  feelings. 
Can  you  imagine  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  erecting  an  altar 
upon  Plymouth  Rock,  trimming  it  with  flowers,  and 
wreathing  it  with  fireflies,  as  did  the  founders  of  Mon 
treal.  It  was  a  waste  of  time  which  should  have  been 
put  to  the  building  of  stockades.  But  it  was  beautiful, 
and  it  had  the  element  of  the  picturesque  which  you 
have  lacked." 

"We  are  not  all  of  us  typical  in  this  or  any  other 
country,"  he  had  gone  on  to  set  forth  his  theory. 
"  Perhaps  the  majority  never  are.  Not  all  of  us  con 
tain  in  ourselves  the  spirit  of  the  whole.  But  there 
must  be  always  a  certain  number  of  individuals  who 
do,  to  an  extent — in  greater  or  less  degree.  Anne, 
my  mother,  and  myself,"  —  he  made  it  personal,  —  "we 
are  the  results  of  Maisonneuve,  Le  Loutre,  Lavalle, 
Bollard,  Marie  de  1'Incarnation,  and"  —  he  thought  of 
his  sister  —  "even  of  Marguerite  de  Roberval.  Each 
one  of  those  is  the  impersonation  of  some  national 
trait,  traits  which  the  Loyalists  and  the  conquerors 


234  ANNE  CARMEL 

have  modified  to  a  great  degree,  but  upon  which"  — 
he  had  smiled  over  that  —  "the  Americans  have  had, 
I  think,  no  influence." 

"  Our  influence,"  she  told  him,  "  may  be  yet  to 
come."  It  had  stopped  there  with  an  appeal  of  aid 
from  Yvonne,  who  had  been  sitting  on  the  floor,  the 
tip  of  her  pink  tongue  between  her  teeth,  absorbed 
in  the  difficulties  of  cutting  out  a  sheet  of  paper 
dolls  which  had  been  brought  her  from  up  in  the 
States.  She  had  lost  all  her  dread  of  the  strange 
demoiselle  now,  and  had  no  hesitation  whatever  about 
making  use  of  her. 

Later,  when  he  had  been  left  alone,  Jean  Carmel 
had  gone  out  to  the  graveyard,  to  the  mound  of  earth 
showing  brown  and  damp  yet  in  the  vague  light  of 
a  quarter-moon  behind  a  hazy  sky.  Then  he  had 
come  in  and  taken  the  book  from  the  shelf  and  sat 
down  with  it  at  his  desk.  It  was  close  upon  midnight 
now,  but  he  kept  reading  from  page  to  page. 

When  he  stopped  at  last,  he  sat  looking  at  a  picture 
in  front  of  him,  leaning  against  the  wall.  Cecily  had 
brought  it  to  him  in  memory  of  an  account  of  one 
of  his  own  expeditions.  It  was  a  small  etching,  the 
black  surface  of  some  great  river,  the  blacker  shadows 
of  the  trees  on  its  shore,  an  Indian  standing  in  his 
canoe,  moving  down  with  the  current  through  the 
night,  and  startled  by  a  wild  goose  flapping  suddenly 
out  from  the  forest.  The  gleam  of  a  star  ray  on  a 


ANNE  OARMEL  235 

ripple,  the  dim  brave  in  the  canoe,  the  gray  whiteness 
of  the  bird,  with  its  neck  outstretched  —  those  were 
all  that  were  not  deep  darkness.  It  was  the  "Soli 
tude,"  it  was  named,  so  tense  that  one  heard  shivering 
through  it  the  wild  fowl's  harsh  squawk.  And  it  was  a 
solitude  he  himself  knew. 

Anne  opened  the  door  of  her  room,  and  he  did  not 
hear  her.  She  stood  watching  him. 

She  would  remember  him  as  he  was  now  in  the  years 
to  come.  In  the  dark  future  which  was  surely  ahead 
for  her  she  would  see  the  circle  of  lamplight,  the  broad 
shoulders  in  the  cassock,  the  big,  browned  hand  on 
the  open  pages  of  the  book,  the  rough-cut  features, 
the  eyes  looking  from  under  heavy  brows,  keen  and 
direct.  She  would  remember  him,  too,  as  he  had  stood 
before  the  altar  of  the  church  he  himself  had  built,  as 
he  had  listened  with  the  patience  of  strength  to  the 
garrulous  plaints  of  old  men  and  women,  as  he  had  won 
the  confidence  of  children,  as  he  had  entered  with  real 
sympathy  into  the  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  all  the 
parish,  —  pleasures  and  sorrows  which  had  never  held 
great  interest  for  her.  There  would  be  so  much  to 
remember.  He  had  been  her  sturdy  protector  in  the 
time  of  her  troublous  childhood,  when  there  had  been 
only  two  considerations  which  would  withhold  her  from 
all  the  sins  of  infancy — that  she  had  consented  to  be 
put  upon  her  honor,  or  that  she  would  be  hurting  Jean. 

And  after  that  —  he  had  been  her  friend,  from  the 


236  ANNE   CARMEL 

circumstances  of  her  life,  the  only  one.  Harnett  could 
never  be  to  her  what  this  brother  had  been.  It  would 
be  Jean  she  would  need  when  troubles  should  begin  to 
close  in,  his  respect  she  would  want  when  she  should 
have  forfeited  any  other,  and  it  would  be  of  him  she 
would  think  when  the  end  of  it  all  should  come,  when 
she  should  be  a  fallen  woman  dying  unrepentant,  and 
he  the  priest,  going  the  way  of  his  duties  still,  sad 
dened  somewhat  —  and  quite  alone. 

Her  eyes  were  burning  and  her  throat  ached  with  the 
tears  she  was  forcing  back.  She  drew  a  long,  steady 
ing  breath.  Then  she  went  forward  and  stood  beside 
the  desk.  He  came  out  from  the  night  and  the  forest 
and  looked  up  astonished.  He  had  supposed  her  long 
since  asleep.  "  Well  —  P'tite  Chose  ?  "  he  queried. 
Her  hand  was  lying  on  the  edge  of  the  desk.  He  laid 
his  own  upon  it,  and  smiled  at  her.  Gradually  the 
smile  went  out  of  his  eyes  and  left  them  hard  and  quiet. 
She  had  not  answered  in  words,  but  he  had  understood 
what  the  meaning  of  it  must  be,  could  only  be,  that  the 
lifelessness  of  the  past  year  and  more  was  gone.  The 
sense  of  life,  intense  and  compelling,  could  be  felt  in 
her,  the  life  that  is  in  a  fixed  idea  which  knows  no 
other  considerations,  which  has  taken  to  itself  the 
strength  of  all  other  thoughts  and  is  an  almost  visible 
force.  And  he  had  remembered  the  letter. 

She  felt  the  hand  that  was  over  hers  growing  cold. 
He  took  it  away.  She  could  have  thrown  her  arms 


ANNE   CARMEL  237 

about  his  neck  and  have  dropped  her  head  upon  the 
shoulders  which  were  bracing  to  the  strain.  But  she 
stood  where  she  was  and  made  no  movement  of  any 
sort. 

"  He  has  come  back  ?  "  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  told  him. 

"  And  —  ?  "  he  waited. 

"And  I  am  going  away  with  him,"  she  finished  it, 
"  not  at  once,  but  soon."  He  knew  the  uselessness 
of  asking  if  there  were  to  be  even  so  much  as  that 
civil  marriage  which  the  church  could  not  recognize 
as  a  sacrament,  yet  which  prevented  dishonor.  Never 
theless  he  asked  it.  "He  is  married,"  Anne  said. 

She  started  back  against  the  wall,  a  quick,  unthinking 
movement  of  self-preservation.  He  looked  upon  the 
point  of  violence.  But  he  had  forced  himself  back 
into  the  chair,  and  he  sat  with  his  mouth  pressed  shut, 
looking  at  her,  beyond  her,  where  she  stood  throwing  a 
short,  heavy  shadow  against  the  boards. 

"  You  have  seen  him  ?  "  he  asked,  after  some  time. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  I  warn  you,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  do  my  best  to  find 
him." 

"Do  you  think,"  she  questioned,  "that  I  should 
have  told  you  if  I  had  not  been  sure  he  was  well 
beyond  your  reach?  By  to-morrow  he  will  be  hun 
dreds  of  miles  away  —  in  the  States." 

He  was  beaten  there,  and  he  had  no  choice  but  to 


238  ANNE   CARMEL 

accept  it,  together  with  the  realization  that  neither 
she  nor  Harnett  would  ever  risk  the  meeting,  that 
they  would  plan  to  prevent  it,  and  succeed.  She  need 
not  have  let  him  know  anything,  she  reminded  him 
now.  At  first  she  had  determined  not  to.  "  Then 
I  thought  it  over,"  she  said,  "  and  I  owed  you  that 
much,  it  seemed  to  me.  I  decided  that  it  would  be 
better." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed  coldly.  "It  is  better — kinder  upon 
the  whole."  He  asked  her  for  the  story  of  Harnett's 
marriage,  and  she  gave  it  to  him.  But  he  was  not 
moved  by  it  to  anything  but  a  contempt  he  made  no 
effort  to  hide.  It  was  incomprehensible  to  him  that 
she  should  be  so  utterly  incapable  of  seeing  the  weak 
ling  the  man  was.  "  After  all,"  he  said,  when  she  had 
come  to  the  end  of  it,  "  stripped  of  all  his  self -justifica 
tion  and  your  sympathy  —  there  remain  the  bare  facts. 
He  could  have  married  you  and  he  did  not.  And  he 
did  not  because  he  valued  ease  and  fortune  considerably 
above  you  —  very  considerably." 

She  shook  her  head.  "Those  are  the  bare  facts," 
she  admitted,  "but  bare  facts  are  no  more  the  truth 
sometimes  than — "  she  hesitated  for  a  simile  —  "than 
bed  rock  stripped  of  its  covering  would  be  the  earth. 
It  is  the  modification  of  the  facts  that  is  the  truth 
very  often."  And  she  tried  again,  with  the  persistency 
she  might  have  put  to  impressing  something  upon  a 
child,  to  make  him  understand  the  thing  from  Harnett's 


ANNE  CARMEL  239 

position  and  her  own.  He  would  only  see  it  that  the 
sacrifice  was  to  be  all  hers. 

"A  little  cheap  melodrama,  and  easy  love-making 
is  all  he  has  to  pay  —  that  and  the  price  of  keeping 
you  until  he  shall  have  done  with  you.  It  is  you 
who  are  to  give  all  the  rest,  all  that  you  have  to  give, 
body  and  soul  and  self-respect. 

"  There  is  nothing  so  common  and  so  facile,"  he 
told  her,  "as  a  love  of  this  man's  sort  —  to  tell  a 
woman  that  you  have  not  been  able  to  keep  away 
from  her!  If  she — if  you — could  only  be  made  to 
understand  the  poor  compliment  of  that !  If  to  have 
the  woman  you  want  is  to  ruin  her  —  then  the  best 
sort  of  love,  it  would  seem  to  me,  is  to  keep  away 
from  her." 

"  Ah !  the  best  sort  of  love  "  —  she  said  dubiously, 
"  how  much  of  that  do  you  find  ?  And  how  are  you 
to  know  that  it  is  not  only  a  cooler  sort?" 

"At  least,"  he  suggested,  "you  could  know  that 
it  was  not  a  selfish  passion." 

All  strong  passions  were  selfish,  she  supposed,  with 
out  resentment.  And  she  quoted  a  line  from  one  of 
his  favorite  romances :  "  Quel  est  1'amour  ou  il  n'y  a 
pas  d'e"goisme?  Quel  est  celui  d'entre  nous  qui  aime 
uniquement  pour  1'objet  aime"?" 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  It  took  thought  to 
oppose  the  thought  she  had  given  to  all  this.  She 
was  not  a  woman  who  kept  to  sophistries  and  illusion. 


240  ANNE  CARMEL 

In  any  one  else  he  would  have  said  that  where  there 
was  so  much  reasoning,  even  faulty  and  incomplete, 
there  must  be  less  love.  But  he  knew  that  it  was  not 
the  case  here.  A  passion  that  did  not  shirk  argument, 
but  enforced  itself  with  it,  was  far  more  difficult  to  deal 
with  and  frustrate  than  any  headlong,  inconsequent  one. 

But  the  splitting  of  these  abstractions  might  go 
on  forever.  He  stopped  it.  Had  she  considered,  he 
asked  her,  the  wrong  she  was  doing  to  Harnett's  wife  ? 
She  was  doing  her  no  wrong,  she  answered.  "I  am 
taking  nothing  she  has  ever  had,  or  ever  wanted. 
She  does  not  care  for  him,  and  she  never  has.  She 
does  not  want  him  to  care  for  her.  Both  of  them 
understand  all  that.  And  I  should  not  do  it,"  she 
told  him,  confidently,  "if  I  were  breaking  another 
woman's  heart." 

He  could  not  but  believe  her.  "  And  the  children  ?  " 
he  offered. 

She  pressed  her  hands  back  against  the  wall  and 
looked  at  him  intractably.  "There  are  no  children," 
she  answered. 

He  frowned  angrily.  Then  he  leaned  toward  her 
across  the  desk.  "  I  wonder  if  you  know  the  effect  of 
this  upon  yourself,  upon  what  has  been  up  to  now  a  fine 
and  honest  character?" 

She  had  a  quick  vision  of  the  short  scene  with 
Mathew  Thorne  here  in  this  same  room  once  before ; 
and  he  could  see  that  he  had  struck  home.  "Oh!  I 


ANNE   CAEMEL  241 

know,"  she  said  disdainfully,  "  that  there  is  no  disgrace 
for  a  woman  so  bitter  as  to  be  herself." 

He  ignored  it.  "Your  nature  is  deteriorating.  It 
has  done  so  already.  In  women  who  have  come  low 
there  is  always  the  wretched  desire  to  conciliate,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  smouldering  resentment  against 
having  to  eat  the  fruit  of  their  own  planting.  Neither 
is  ennobling.  You  think  you  will  have  a  happiness  that 
will  keep  you  above  all  those  miserable,  petty  things, 
but  the  happiness  of  a  woman  without  the  name  and 
rights  of  a  wife  —  it  is  that  of  those  who  tread  their 
wine-presses  and  suffer  thirst.  And  it  will  not  last,  Anne. 
The  time  will  come  when  he  will  grow  tired  of  you." 

"  I  expect  it,"  she  said  quietly.  She  was  very  white. 
"There  have  been  cases,  I  suppose,  where  it  has  not 
followed.  But  I  am  not  counting  on  mine  to  be  one  of 
the  exceptions.  I  never  have." 

"And  in  that  event,"  he  asked,  "what  will  you 
be? — disreputable,  debased,  whether  he  chooses  to 
make  you  an  object  of  charity  or  to  let  you  die  at 
the  edge  of  the  gutter." 

He  had  pushed  back  his  chair  and  risen  from  it, 
and  was  walking  back  and  forth  across  the  room.  His 
voice  was  guarded,  not  to  reach  Amelie  or  Cecily 
Thorne.  He  came  close  to  her  and  stopped. 

He  believed  that  she  might  have  shirked  the  one 
issue  which  could  admit  of  no  specious  self-justification, 
to  defy  which  was  not  to  show  a  kind  of  admiration 


242  ANNE  CARMEL 

compelling  courage,  but  the  most  despicable  of  all 
cowardice. 

"  If  you  have  no  children  of  the  wife's  to  consider  — 
and  if  it  is  only  for  you  and  him  to  decide  to  bear 
what  you  may  bring  upon  yourselves  here  and  here 
after,  yet  by  what  right  do  you  inflict  upon  those  who 
may  be  brought  into  the  world  through  you  the  suf 
fering  and  blighted  life  of  the  illegitimate  ?  "  She  had 
nothing  to  answer. 

"That  is  the  most  cruel  of  any  of  the  forms  of 
egoism  that  such  love  as  yours  takes,  Anne,"  he  told 
her,  when  she  stood  with  her  lips  pressed  together, 
all  that  was  merely  stubborn  and  self-willed  showing, 
"to  entail  upon  helpless  children  all  that  shame  and 
misery  and  mortification.  There  is  not  one  single  argu 
ment  by  which  that  can  be  made  to  appear  other  than 
despicable  and  unworthy,  so  despicable  and  unworthy 
that  it  spreads  backward  and  forward  over  all  the  rest 
and  makes  that  equally  so." 

His  own  love  for  children  made  him  feel  their 
dependence  as  so  much  an  obligation  to  protect  them. 

Anne's  eyes  fell.  But  it  was  useless.  He  saw  that 
it  was.  "Perhaps  that  will  not  follow,"  was  all  she 
had  to  say.  In  the  unpleasant  silence  which  came 
after,  she  lifted  her  eyes  again  and  saw  his  face.  It 
had  never  looked  the  disapproval  that  was  on  it  now, 
and  she  would  far  rather  have  seen  anger  —  anything. 
She  could  not  meet  it.  She  avoided  it  uncomfortably. 
But  she  was  not  changed. 


ANNE  OAKMEL  243 

There  was  only  one  appeal  left  which  he  had  not 
yet  made,  that  to  sheer  Right  —  the  highest  of  all,  yet 
of  small  use,  he  could  not  but  think,  against  the  intense 
personality  it  had  to  meet. 

Nevertheless  he  made  it,  from  the  fulness  of  his 
heart  and  conviction.  He  had  never  spoken  in  any 
sermon  as  he  did  now.  It  was  Right  for  itself  that 
he  urged,  all  finite  and  temporal  and  personal  con 
siderations  aside.  She  put  out  her  hand  at  length  to 
check  him.  "I  know  all  that,  Jean.  You  can't  tell 
me  anything  that  I  have  not  already  thought  of  until 
I  am  sick  and  weary.  It  is  all  of  no  use  to  talk  to 
me  of  the  higher  laws  of  God.  If  He  has  higher 
and  lower  ones  —  then  I  am  following  a  lower,  and 
a  very  strong  one,  and  it  was  the  law  before  those 
of  marriage  or  the  church  or  even  society." 

"  If  his  love  had  been  nearly  so  great  as  yours,"  her 
brother  answered,  "  then  marriage  and  the  church  and 
society  would  all  have  helped  you  to  have  one  another. 
It  is  because  his  greed  was  the  greater,  that  they  stand 
between  you." 

"  Then  the  greatness  of  my  love  must  make  up  for 
any  weakness  of  his,"  she  said  doggedly. 

He  turned  and  went  over  to  the  open  window.  A 
vine  was  growing  around  the  casing,  and  a  bit  of  it 
hung  over.  He  snapped  it  off  and  stood,  holding  it, 
looking  out  into  the  blackness  of  the  midsummer  night, 
in  which  there  was  no  sound  save  the  little  stirring 


244  ANNE  CARMEL 

of  some  bird  in  the  apple  tree  outside,  and  the  singing 
murmur  of  frogs. 

Anne  watched  him.  She  would  remember  him  this 
way,  too,  in  the  times  ahead,  oftenest,  if  might  be,  of  all 

—  in  the  deep  shadow,  his  back  turned  to  her,  his  head 
down. 

He  faced  about  slowly  and  came  back  to  his  chair. 

"  When  the  time  comes  that  you  want  me,  P'tite 
Chose,"  he  said  gently,  "  will  you  let  me  know  —  or 
come  home  to  me?"  The  tears  sprang  into  her  eyes 
on  the  instant. 

But  she  shook  her  head  determinedly.  "It  would 
not  be  just  to  you,  Jean.  When  I  go,  it  must  be  out 
of  your  life  for  good  and  all.  You  have  every  chance 
for  advancement,  and  it  must  not  be  always  hanging 
over  you,  hampering  your  future,  that  a  fallen  sister 
may  return  to  you  at  any  time.  If  you  were  to  stay  on 
in  St.  Hilaire,  it  might  not  matter.  But  your  house 
keeper  in  more  important  parishes  could  not  be  —  what 
I  will  be." 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  her.  She  hesitated,  then  she 
went  up  to  him,  and  he  drew  her  nearer.  "Listen, 
Anne,"  he  said.  "  It  is  not  as  if  I  could  ever  forget  you 

—  as  if  I  could  go  on  and  make  for  myself  the  sort  of 
happiness  that  a  man  might  who  could  have  a  wife  and 
children,  a  family  of  his  own.     Except  for  you,  I  am 
alone  in  the  world,  quite  alone,  and  I  must  always  be. 
There  will  be  only  one  thing  left  for  me  to  hope  of  this 


ANNE  CARMEL  245 

world  when  you  are  gone.  It  is  that  I  may  some  day 
be  of  use  to  you,  when  others  shall  have  failed,  that  I 
may  see  you  —  and  have  you  with  me  again." 

She  tried  to  answer,  but  he  would  not  let  her.  He 
kept  on.  "  The  time  will  come,  P'tite  Chose,  when  you 
will  see  in  the  eyes  of  this  man,  for  whom  you  are 
giving  everything,  that  which  I  have  just  seen  in 
yours,  when  you  will  know  as  I  did  a  little  while  ago 
and  without  being  told  it  in  words,  that  he  has  come 
to  say  good-by.  You  will  have  wished  for  the  big 
brother  who  has  always  been  your  protector,  before 
that  —  often,  I  think,  but  never  as  you  will  wish  for 
him  then." 

She  had  dropped  down  on  her  knees  beside  him  and 
hidden  her  face  against  his  shoulder,  sobbing  and  hold 
ing  to  him.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  firmly,  and 
stroked  the  hair  which  showed  all  its  warm  gleams  in 
the  lamplight.  His  mouth  quivered.  But  he  pressed 
his  lips  together  and  went  on.  "  When  that  happens, 
Anne,"  he  said,  bending  over  her,  "  will  you  come  back 
to  the  one  who  will  be  faithful  to  you,  though  others 
fail  —  to  the  lonely  old  Cure  who  will  be  waiting  for 
you  always  in  his  little  presbytere  ?  " 

He  had  never  meant  to  stoop  to  the  selfish  plea,  to 
work  upon  her  affection  for  him.  It  had  always 
seemed  to  him  that  such  a  course  was  unfair,  almost 
like  taking  advantage  of  some  bodily  weakness  in  gain 
ing  one's  ends.  But  he  came  to  it  now.  For  that 


246  ANNE  CAKMEL 

picture  of  the  future  was  before  him,  and  he  was  seeing 
the  one  thing  he  dreaded  most  of  all,  —  an  abandoned 
woman,  debased  and  desperate,  dying  by  her  own  act 
in  her  wretchedness  and  her  sin.  If  he  should  have 
been  able  to  save  her  from  nothing  else,  at  least  he 
must  have  tried  every  means  to  prevent  that.  "  It  is 
not  for  yourself  I  am  asking  it,"  he  whispered  to  her. 
"This  time  it  is  for  the  big  brother  who  has  always 
thought  more  of  you  than  of  any  one  in  the  world, 
for  the  lonely  priest  —  for  just  myself.  Will  you 
promise  it  —  for  me?"  He  held  her  yet  closer  and 
his  hand  still  stroked  her  hair.  But  it  was  trembling. 
He  waited  with  his  face  near  to  hers.  She  was  catch 
ing  her  breath,  trying  to  answer  him.  The  one  hope 
left  him  hung  on  the  word  he  was  listening  for. 

"  Will  you  come  back,  little  sister  ? "  he  repeated. 
The  word  would  not  be  spoken  yet,  but  the  down- 
bowed  head  moved  in  assent. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IT  was  only  the  front  and  sides  of  the  presbytere 
which  were  given  over  exclusively  to  beauty.  The 
back  was  devoted  to  practical  usefulness.  The  barn 
was  there,  the  cow  stable  and  the  store  shed.  There 
were  also  a  vegetable  garden,  fruit  trees,  and  berry 
vines.  The  Cur£  was  at  work  in  the  vegetable 
garden,  and  Amelie  Latouche  was  going  back  and 
forth.  She  did  not  in  the  least  approve  of  her  mas 
ter's  working  among  the  vegetables.  In  her  opinion  it 
did  not  become  the  dignity  of  his  office,  and  she  re 
fused  to  be  converted,  even  by  his  argument  that  the 
great  Champlain  himself  had  had  his  kitchen  patch 
and  toiled  in  it.  Who,  in  any  event,  was  Champlain  ? 
She  for  one  did  not  know  and  had  no  intention  of 
asking. 

This  morning  she  was  in  a  bad  humor  with  all  the 
world.  And  Jean  Carmel  had  observed  as  much,  and 
drawn  conclusions  to  the  effect  that  it  was  due  to  the 
rough  running  of  the  course  of  an  affair  of  the  heart  of 
long  standing  between  herself  and  the  sexton.  For 
a  matter  of  five  years,  off  and  on,  Amelie  had,  been 

247 


248  ANNE  CARMEL 

going  to  marry  the  sexton  —  aged  sixty,  and  already 
twice  a  widower.  And  something  had,  time  and  again, 
prevented  it.  The  something  had  been  almost  invariably 
the  sexton's  youngest  son,  a  scapegrace  of  twenty,  who 
managed  to  get  into  financial  difficulties  with  surpris 
ing  aptness,  precisely  at  the  moment  that  his  father 
had  saved  enough  to  make  a  third  matrimonial  ven 
ture  seem  feasible.  The  old  man,  tender  of  sentiment 
toward  his  last-born,  would  come  to  the  rescue ;  his  fif 
teen  or  twenty  dollars  would  go  to  pay  debts  of  a  sort 
he  himself,  always  exemplary,  had  never  even  in  his 
earliest  youth  contracted,  debts  for  gambling  and  for 
white  whiskey.  Then  the  marriage  would  be  postponed. 
Amelie  knew  her  own  worth  as  a  woman,  and  a  bread 
winner,  and,  though  a  spinster  anxious  for  matronhood, 
had  refused  to  throw  herself  away  upon  a  man  who  had 
barely  the  dollar  to  pay  the  priest.  But  of  late  fortune 
had  appeared  propitious.  The  son  had  given  over  evil 
habits,  with  a  completeness  which  might  have  aroused 
suspicions,  baptisms  had  been  so  frequent  that  the  sex 
ton  had  made  quite  a  comfortable  sum  ringing  the  bell, 
and  the  wedding  had  consequently  been  set  for  the 
middle  of  July. 

Then,  when  all  had  seemed  as  good  as  done,  the  son 
had  frustrated  the  plans  again.  This  time  it  was 
neither  gambling  nor  tavern  debts.  It  was  matrimony 
upon  his  own  account.  He  had  engaged  himself  to 
a  girl  at  Les  Trembles,  and  they  were  to  be  called  for 


ANNE  CARMEL  249 

the  first  time  at  the  church  the  next  high  mass.  Love 
and  no  higher  motive  had  actuated  his  reformation,  it 
now  transpired.  And  he  threatened  that,  in  the  event 
of  his  father's  refusal  to  furnish  him  a  decent  and  seemly 
sum  for  a  wedding  and  attendant  festivities,  he  would 
return  to  the  path  of  vice  and  travel  it  faster.  Amelie, 
consulted  in  the  dilemma,  had  counselled  allowing  him 
to  do  it  promptly  and  at  once,  since  it  was  certain  that 
he  would,  sooner  or  later,  in  any  case.  She  was  of  the 
opinion  of  many  of  greater  worldly  knowledge,  that 
the  devil  never  yet  gave  up  hopes  of  a  man  who  was 
reformed  by  infatuation  for  a  woman. 

But  the  son  was  the  apple  of  the  sexton's  eye, 
for  all  that  he  was  a  prodigal.  "At  our  age,"  he 
had  tried  to  show  Amelie,  "  there  is  no  great  haste ; 
at  his  there  is.  I  must  give  him  this  last  chance. 
After  that  —  yes,  but  this  time  I  will  adhere  to  my 
word  —  after  that  he  must  shift  for  himself.  The  girl 
is  sensible,  and  not  extravagant.  She  will  help  him. 
Then  I  will  save  up  again  ;  and  there  should  be, 
at  least, "  he  considered,  marking  off  on  his  fingers, 
"  six  more  baptisms  that  I  know  of,  before  the  winter. 
We  will  be  married  in  November,  if  all  goes  well." 
And  Amelie  had  seen  her  chance  at  being  promoted  to 
a  wife  recede.  She  did  not  fancy  that,  and  decided  to 
forego  her  avarice. 

"  Who  knows  —  I  may  be  dead  by  November,"  she  had 
explained  to  the  Cure,  lugubrious  and  dissatisfied.  "  It  is 


250  ANNE  CARMEL 

not,"  she  added,  "  that  I  am  afraid  to  die  more  than  the 
next  one.  But  you  see  for  yourself,  mon  pdre,  that  it 
would  look  better  to  be  married  first.  He  has  not  two 
dollars  —  yet  I  will  marry  him." 

It  was  one  of  the  sexton's  duties  to  keep  the  woodpile 
in  the  barn  replenished  with  sticks  of  a  suitable  size 
for  Amelie's  kitchen  stove.  This  morning  the  sticks 
were  apparently  all  too  large.  She  swept  out  the 
kitchen  with  her  broom  of  twigs,  sorted  the  pota 
toes  in  the  store  shed,  then  came  and  complained  of 
the  wood.  "  I  can't  burn  logs  the  size  of  those,  in  my 
stove,"  she  said. 

Monsieur  Carmel  was  training  some  strong-smell 
ing  tomato  vines,  and  he  went  on  with  his  work.  "  Theo- 
phile  ought  to  be  somewhere  around  the  church,"  he 
suggested  equably.  Theophile  was  the  too  paternal 
suitor. 

Amelie,  standing  under  a  big  sunflower,  her  hands  on 
her  hips,  her  enormous  brimmed  hat  on  over  her  night 
cap,  sneered.  Theophile !  —  he  never  attended  to  his 
duties  properly.  The  wood  was  always  too  big ;  besides, 
he  was  not  around  the  church,  he  was  probably  off  with 
his  worthless  son.  If  there  was  no  small  wood,  there 
could  be  no  midday  dinner,  that  was  all. 

The  Cure  left  his  tomato  vines.  "We  must  have 
dinner  —  evidently, "  he  said  good-humoredly.  He 
went  into  the  woodshed,  picked  up  the  axe,  and  split 
several  armfuls  of  pieces. 


ANNE  CARMEL  251 

Amelie  stood  in  the  doorway  and  looked  on,  consid 
erably  disconcerted.  It  was  not  meet  that  a  priest 
should  perform  the  neglected  work  of  a  beadle,  she 
opined  grumblingly.  She  had  not  meant  m'sieu  to  do 
that. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  told  her,  putting  by  the  axe, 
"  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  any  one  of  the  sticks  would 
have  gone  into  the  stove,  without  much  trouble ; "  and 
he  met  her  injured  and  indignant  protestations  to  the 
contrary  with  a  smile. 

He  went  back  to  his  vegetable  garden,  and  worked  at 
it  for  some  time  longer,  in  pursuance  of  a  formed  deter 
mination  to  be  with  Cecily  Thorne  no  more  often  than 
civility  required. 

It  was  not  until  almost  an  hour  later  that  he  came 
round  from  the  kitchen  patch,  through  a  path  between 
the  blackberry  bushes,  carrying  a  big  wooden  bowl  full 
of  radishes,  tomatoes,  and  lettuce.  He  stopped,  and 
stood  looking  at  what  was  going  on  in  the  flower  gar 
den.  Mathew  Thorne  was  doing  a  much-discussed 
sketch  in  oils.  He  had  put  up  his  easel  in  the  shade  of 
one  of  the  church  elms,  and  had,  with  admirable  oblivi- 
ousness  of  what  effect  the  sun  he  himself  was  avoiding 
might  have  upon  Anne,  posed  her  in  the  midst  of  two 
beds  of  poppies,  which  were  Monsieur  Carmel's  pride. 
The  poppies  were  great,  flaming  scarlet  ones  on  furry 
stems,  black-stained  at  their  fierce,  hot  hearts.  Two  of 
them,  wide-opened  to  falling,  were  in  Anne's  hands,  and 


252  ANNE  CARMEL 

one,  with  a  green  seed-pod,  drooped  on  her  hair.  Her 
face  was  colorless,  and  her  eyes  heavy.  It  did  not 
heighten  her  beauty  perhaps,  but  it  added  suggestion  to 
the  pose. 

Thome  glanced  up  from  his  block.  He  took  in 
the  effect  of  the  priest's  cassock,  the  bowl  of  garden 
stuff,  and  the  mortar  and  stone  wall  of  the  house. 
When  he  should  have  finished  the  sister,  he  called,  it 
might  be  well  to  do  the  brother  as  "The  Cure's 
Salad,"  or  "The  Earth's  Increase."  He  had  a  feel 
ing  at  once  that  the  flippancy  had  been  a  little  ill 
advised.  Jean  Carmel  had  walked  over  to  the  porch 
and  set  down  the  bowl,  without  replying.  Thorne, 
with  a  sudden  realization  that  a  priest's  robe  in  con 
junction  with  an  armful  of  vegetables  did  not  preclude 
dignity,  cast  a  sidewise  look  at  his  cousin,  who  was 
leaning  against  the  fence  near  him,  watching  progress. 
His  brows  raised.  Her  face  had  flushed  with  plain 
annoyance,  and  the  color  deepened  under  his  quizzical 
scrutiny.  "A  blush,"  he  commented,  in  a  dropped 
voice,  meant  for  only  her  ears,  "like  the  scarlet 
flag  of  Jeanne  d'Arc  at  Rouen,  shows  sometimes 
where  there  is  weakness  in  the  walls." 

Jean  Carmel,  dusting  the  soil  from  his  hands  and 
cassock,  came  over  and  took  up  his  place  back  of 
Thorne.  Whatever  his  opinion  of  the  man,  —  and  it 
was  not  extravagantly  high,  —  there  could  be  no  ques 
tion  as  to  the  ability  of  the  artist.  The  effect  of  the 


ANNE  CARMEL  253 

upward  reflection  of  the  scarlet  flowers  upon  the  dead 
paleness  of  the  skin  was  managed  with  admirable 
technique.  And  there  was  the  heat  of  midsummer 
noon  beating  in  the  atmosphere. 

He  had  grave  doubts  as  to  the  advisability  of  Anne's 
standing  for  so  long  in  the  full  sun.  The  strain  of 
the  day  and  night  before  had  been  heavy  enough 
upon  her,  as  it  was.  To  him  she  showed  it  cruelly. 
And  it  must  be  evident,  he  thought,  to  Thorne,  since 
the  look  had  been  caught  exactly  in  the  sketch.  He 
was  inclined  to  resent  it  that  Anne's  unhappiness 
should  be  laid  bare  to  speculation.  But  Thorne  had 
that  species  of  egoism  which  connects  all  things,  in 
one  way  or  another,  with  itself.  He  had  taken  due 
note  of  Anne's  abstraction.  But  he  had  set  it  down 
to  continuing  resentment  of  the  episode  of  the  year 
before,  and  reflected  upon  the  manifest  advantages 
of  worldly  training,  which  enabled  himself  to  ignore 
that  unfortunate  mischance  as  entirely  as  if  it  had 
never  taken  place.  The  same  training  in  Anne  Car- 
mel,  he  could  not  but  think,  would  have  added  to 
the  general  comfort  —  his  own  in  particular.  As  it 
was,  he  was  made  to  feel  a  trifle  like  the  villain  of 
melodrama  who  has  insulted  helpless  innocence.  It 
bordered  the  mock-heroic  and  absurd,  and  was,  more 
over,  hardly  fair,  all  things  considered.  Since  he  was 
ready  to  forget,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  her  own 
not  too  creditable  history,  she  might  have  had  the 


254  ANNE  CAEMEL 

grace  to  do  the  same  by  his   one  very  natural   misin 
terpretation  thereof. 

Cecily  Thorne  had  gone  away  to  the  corner  of  the 
garden  under  the  apple  tree.  Jean  Carmel  crossed  over 
to  her.  Yvonne's  dolls  were  lying  in  a  chair.  He  took 
them  up  and  sat  down,  putting  them  across  his  knees, 
with  a  complete  lack  of  any  self-consciousness 
which  might  have  suggested  to  another  man  that  a 
muscular  young  priest,  with  two  large,  badly  damaged, 
and  untidy  dolls,  stretched  in  his  lap  in  attitudes  of 
limp,  despairing  abandonment,  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
quaint.  The  chair  was  close  to  Cecily.  He  settled 
back  into  it  and  absently  took  the  arm  of  one  of  the 
dolls  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  moving  it  up  and 
down.  He  still  watched  Anne,  where  she  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  poppies.  Next  year,  when  the  poppies 
should  come  again,  burning  out  in  the  summer  heat, 
she  would  not  be  there  —  nor  the  year  after,  nor  for 
years  to  come,  if  ever.  It  might  be  better,  upon  the 
whole,  to  let  the  garden  go,  do  the  best  it  could  alone, 
growing  over  gradually  with  the  weeds  and  grasses 
and  blackberry  vines.  He  could  put  his  time  to  other 
things,  —  study,  the  work  of  the  parish,  and  the  hunt 
ing  and  fishing  and  canoeing  which  were  better  for  loneli 
ness  —  the  things  in  which  one  might  forget  the  need  of 
women  in  the  world.  A  garden  presupposed  a  woman 
—  since  the  one  eastward  in  Eden.  The  poppies 
without  Anne  would  lose  half  their  glory.  He  had 


ANNE  CARMEL  255 

always  connected  her  with  them,  as  he  did  the  spring 
daffodils. 

He  turned  to  Cecily  Thome.  "  When  you  shall  be  a 
world-known  singer,"  he  said,  "  and  shall  come  back  one 
day  to  visit  the  spot  you  once  knew  for  a  few  short 
days  of  your  youth,  you  will  knock  at  the  door  of  the 
presbytere,  and  it  will  be  opened  by  a  big,  bent,  gray- 
haired  priest,  his  life  waxen  old  with  heaviness.  His 
sight  will  not  be  what  it  had  been,  but  when  you  shall 
have  told  him  who  you  are,  he  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 
And  he  will  take  you  out  among  the  weeds  of  the  yard, 
and  remind  you  where  were  the  daffodils  the  first  time 
you  came  into  the  garden.  He  will  point  out  where 
the  great  poppies  were  among  which  his  sister  stood,  on 
a  summer's  day  —  "  He  stopped  abruptly  and  laughed 
it  off.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said. 

She  called  to  Yvonne's  collie,  which  had  come  up 
along  the  path.  "  Voyons  Dagobert,"  she  said  to  him, 
taking  his  head  into  her  lap.  "  When  we  come  back, 
will  you  know  us  too  —  or  will  you  bark  and  try  to 
bite?" 

"  He  will  be  long  since  dead,"  said  Jean  Carmel, 
shortly.  And  his  voice  was  rude. 

In  the  awkward  pause  that  followed  he  looked 
straight  ahead  of  him,  his  eyes  more  direct  and  stern 
than  commonly.  Dagobert  licked  Cecily's  fingers. 

He  had  come  into  the  garden  with  his  mistress  and 
Etienne  Coppee.  And  the  two  children  were  following 


256  ANNE   CARMEL 

him;  Yvonne  in  advance,  Etienne  dutifully  behind. 
They  had  painstakingly  avoided  Mathew  Thome's 
neighborhood.  Yvonne's  terror  of  him  was  not  to  be 
overcome.  The  memory  of  the  rainy  day  and  of  his 
laugh  and  comment  from  the  tavern  door,  refused  to 
be  eradicated.  She  looked  with  uncomprehending 
puzzlement  at  Anne,  standing  so  still  in  the  sun,  hat- 
less,  and  with  poppies  in  her  hands  and  hair.  It  was 
a  most  extraordinary  and  inexplicable  proceeding. 
"What  is  she  doing?"  she  asked  of  Miss  Thorne. 
Cecily  explained.  "  Oh  !  "  said  Yvonne  slowly,  as  the 
idea  worked  itself  into  her  brain.  And  what  had  she 
herself  been  doing,  Cecily  asked.  "  Buying  groceries," 
she  replied,  with  all  the  solemnity  of  a  plump  house- 
mistress.  "  Show  them,  Etienne." 

Etienne  carried  a  newspaper  bundle  of  small  propor 
tions.  He  came  up  and  opened  it,  displaying  the  con 
tents,  four  fancy  crackers,  some  candy  gooseberries,  and 
a  burnt  almond,  also  a  few  coffee  beans  —  representing 
the  purchasing  power  of  a  ten-cent  piece  which  Cecily 
had  contributed  toward  the  domestic  funds.  It  was  for 
dinner,  Etienne  explained,  twisting  up  the  top  of  the 
paper  tightly  again.  "  We  went  to  the  pasture  to  milk 
the  cow,"  said  Etienne,  who  had  the  confessing  habit  to 
a  troublesome  degree,  together  with  the  trait  of  his 
first  father,  of  dragging  the  woman  in.  "  And  Yvonne 
left  the  gate  open,  and  the  cow  got  out.  And  Theo- 
phile  is  chasing  her." 


ANNE  CARMEL  257 

He  waited  for  Monsieur  Carmel's  remarks,  but  none 
were  forthcoming.  Monsieur  did  not  seem  to  have 
listened.  "  Come  on,"  said  Yvonne,  not  approving 
the  trend  of  Etienne's  conversation,  and  desirous 
of  changing  the  subject,  "we  must  cook  dinner." 
Then  she  bethought  herself  of  their  family.  She 
glanced  at  the  chair  in  which  the  Cure*  sat,  an 
expression  of  intense  indignation  coming  over  her 
rubicund  countenance.  It  died  out.  She  saw  the  dolls 
on  his  lap.  He  was  not  sitting  on  them,  after  all.  She 
made  a  grab  for  them.  But  he  was  too  quick.  One  in 
each  hand  he  held  them  high  above  his  head.  Yvonne 
reached  fruitlessly.  She  climbed  upon  the  rungs  of  the 
chair  and  reached  again.  Then  she  hung  her  whole 
very  creditable  weight  on  the  arm,  and  tried  to  pull  it 
down. 

The  limb  of  a  tree  had  not  been  more  firm.  "  Give 
them  to  me,"  she  demanded,  "  give  them  to  me.  They 
must  have  their  dinner."  She  was  panting  with 
exertion.  "Etienne,"  she  called.  Masculine  assist 
ance  was  desirable  on  occasions ;  in  such  a  crisis  as 
this,  for  instance.  "Etienne,  come  and  help."  But 
Monsieur  Carmel  was  the  Cure,  and  not  to  be  climbed 
over  and  battered  even  when  he  chose  to  descend 
from  his  lofty  dignity  to  tease.  Etienne  failed  his 
helpmeet  in  the  emergency. 

She  looked  at  him  with  contempt  beyond  mere  inade 
quate  speech.  "  I  won't  be  married  to  you  any  more," 


258  ANNE  CABMBL 

she  said,  and  turned  on  her  heel  and  walked  away,  over 
to  the  back  of  the  garden,  near  the  latticed  cellar  door, 
where  their  house  was  an  old  shawl  stretched  from  the 
edge  of  the  well  to  a  tree. 

Etienne,  divorced  by  a  process  of  more  than  Mosaic 
simplicity,  stood  hesitating,  looking  dejectedly  after  her. 
The  Cur6  repented  and  took  pity  upon  him.  "This 
is  not  sufficient  cause  for  separation,"  he  said  to  Cecily. 
"  I  will  have  to  mediate.  There  are  disadvantages 
in  living  under  the  roof  of  an  heiress."  He  took 
Etienne  by  the  hand,  and,  carrying  the  dolls  carefully, 
went  toward  the  playhouse,  under  the  shadow  of 
which  Yvonne  sat,  with  her  back  resolutely  turned. 

The  matter  was,  in  the  end,  satisfactorily  arranged 
for  all  parties,  the  wife  placated,  the  husband  rein 
stated  in  favor,  and  the  children  rendered  up  to  their 
legal  owners. 

Jean  Carmel  did  not  go  back  to  his  place  under 
the  wide-branched  apple  tree  again. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THERE  is  a  class  of  charity  among  those  so  situated 
in  the  world  that  they  have  little  other  to  dispense, 
which  ceases  in  the  ranks  of  those  esteemed  more  for 
tunate,  and  who,  with  the  comfortable  philosophy  of 
Zacchssus,  stand  forth  and  say  unto  the  Lord  that,  hav 
ing  given  half  their  goods  to  the  poor,  if  they  have  done 
any  wrong  to  any  man,  they  thereby  restore  fourfold.  It 
is  that  charity  which  covers  sins  and  is  ready  to  ignore 
them,  to  give  the  sinner  a  new  chance,  a  fresh  start,  a 
clean  sheet  for  the  writing  of  his  future  life. 

Anne  Carmel  had  outlived  her  disgrace  in  the  par 
ish,  and  the  past  was  not  generally  remembered  against 
her.  She  was  to  marry  a  respectable  man  and  begin 
over  fairly.  And  it  was  not  deemed  necessary  to  the 
maintenance  of  a  standard  of  virtue  to  recall  bygones 
persistently.  The  drawing  away  from  her  neighbor 
hood  and  watching  her  askance  had  some  time  since 
ceased. 

Two  days  after  she  had  met  Harnett  in  the  deserted 
log  hut,  it  began  again.  It  was  a  Sunday,  and  the 
assembling  for  high  mass  meant  always  the  spreading 

259 


260  ANNE  CAKMEL 

of  gossip.  A  habitant  on  an  outlying  farm  had  seen 
Harnett  riding  upon  a  sorry  beast  toward  St.  Hilaire. 
Another  knew  that  he  had  stayed  over  night  in  the  next 
parish,  in  the  tavern  at  Les  Trembles. 

In  the  open  space  near  the  church,  where  they  tied 
their  buggies  and  charettes,  they  told  it  to  shifting 
groups.  One  bit  of  information  attracted  another  and 
dovetailed  with  it.  There  was  Antoine's  account  of 
the  closed  door  at  Se*ailles'  cabin.  Coppe'e  had  insisted 
that  it  had  been  left  unbarred,  as  indeed  it  was  obliged 
to  be,  since  the  bars  could  only  be  dropped  from  within. 
And  Madame  Gerard's  mother  had  met  Mademoiselle 
Carmel  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  cabin  rather 
after  noon,  on  Friday,  her  gray  eyes  shining  vaguely 
and  seeming  to  see  nothing,  her  face  like  that  of  some 
one  who  might  have  encountered  a  loup-garrou. 

Anne,  waiting  for  Cecily  Thorne  by  the  church  en 
trance,  saw  a  lot  of  habitants  glancing  toward  her  cov 
ertly.  She  had  not  expected  it.  She  grew  cold  and 
trembled  nervously.  But  she  showed  the  same  indif 
ferent  front  with  which  she  had  faced  the  same  thing 
before. 

Only  before  the  indifference  had  been  genuine.  Now 
it  was  not.  In  that  rebelliousness  against  having  to  eat 
the  fruit  of  her  own  deeds  which  her  brother  had  fore 
told,  she  felt  a  bitter  dislike  of  them  all  for  a  set  of 
persecuting  Pharisees,  and  an  angry  satisfaction  that 
she  would  soon  outrage  their  narrow  sense  of  the  pro- 


ANNE   CABMEL  261 

prieties  more  flagrantly  yet  —  since  there  are,  illogically 
enough,  none  so  resentful  against  the  public  opinion 
which  dares  to  judge  them  unfavorably  as  those  same 
ones  who  have,  in  the  beginning,  flouted  and  disdained 
it.  What  right  had  they  to  judge  of  her  actions  ?  And 
how  did  they  know  of  them  in  any  case  ?  Who  had 
found  out  the  meeting  in  the  cabin,  and  been  busybody 
enough  to  spread  it?  When  Antoine  had  pressed  his 
face  against  the  window,  had  he  seen  more  than  he 
had  seemed  to?  And  under  all  her  indignation  she 
was  uneasily  conscious  of  that  very  deterioration  which 
Jean  had  warned  her  of.  Chafing  and  fretting  against 
what  she  had  brought  on  herself,  vindictive  annoyance 
with  those  who  showed  themselves  inclined  to  keep 
aloof,  were  not  motives  having  any  dignity,  and  she 
knew  it. 

She  stood  her  ground  until  Cecily  arrived.  Then 
they  went  into  the  church. 

Paul  Tetrault  had  been  in  one  of  the  groups  at  the 
hitching  rails.  After  the  mass  he  did  not  meet  Anne, 
as  was  his  custom.  He  could  not  help  believing  that 
the  story  was  true,  that  Harnett  was  back  and  that 
Anne  had  seen  him.  He  was  hurt  and  angry  at  the 
treachery,  though  he  still  refused  to  accept  any  doubts 
of  her  virtue.  But  he  was  more  than  a  little  afraid 
to  face  Anne  alone.  He  wanted  backing.  And  he 
went  for  it  to  the  Cure".  Jean  Carmel  would  surely 
recognize  that  he,  Paul  Tetrault,  had  been  badly 


262  ANNE   CARMEL 

treated,  and  would  sympathize  with  him,  and  join 
him  in  condemning  Anne's  behavior. 

Monsieur  Carmel  was  in  the  sacristy,  and  Tetrault 
asked  to  speak  to  him  alone.  There  were  a  couple 
of  acolytes  lingering.  "  Make  haste  !  "  the  priest  told 
them,  more  curtly  than  was  his  habit.  He  closed  the 
door  after  them.  Then  he  turned  back  to  Tetrault. 
"  Yes  ?  "  he  said.  It  was  hardly  the  tone  of  sympathy. 
He  had  never  showed  the  friendliness  that  was  surely 
to  be  expected  from  a  prospective  brother-in-law.  Nev 
ertheless,  Paul  adhered  to  his  purpose. 

There  was  talk  of  a  very  unpleasant  sort  in  the 
parish,  he  began.  No  helping  interrogation  followed. 
He  kept  on,  uncomfortably.  The  Englishman,  Har- 
nett,  had  been  seen  in  the  neighborhood  —  on  Friday 
—  and  had  slept  at  Les  Trembles  on  Thursday  night. 

The  surprise  and  wrath  upon  which  he  had  counted 
failed  to  be  manifested.  There  was  still  the  dis 
couraging  silence.  Had  Jean  Carmel  known  it  ?  he 
asked.  Yes,  he  had  known  it.  And  that  Anne  was 
said  to  have  met  the  man  at  Seailles'  cabin? 

The  priest  stood  looking  at  him.  "I  should  advise 
you,"  he  said,  "  to  go  directly  to  Anne.  It  is  not  neces 
sary  to  come  to  me  for  information  — nor  for  assistance." 

Tetrault's  easy  blush  surged  over  his  face.  He 
stammered  an  unhappy  apology.  "  It  is  due  to  my 
sister,"  Jean  Carmel  answered,  and  busied  himself  with 
the  vestments  he  had  just  taken  off,  folding  his  stole. 


ANNE  CAEMBL  263 

By  what  code  of  common  sense  or  even  chivalry 
apologies  should  be  due  to  Anne  under  the  circum 
stances,  was  very  much  beyond  Paul's  understanding. 
It  was  true,  what  was  said  of  the  Cure,  that  his  atti 
tude  toward  his  sister  and  that  which  he  exacted  from 
others  was  not  reasonable.  It  was  absurd  to  demand, 
for  a  woman  who  had  put  herself  in  Anne's  position, 
considerably  more  deference  than  was  customarily 
acknowledged  as  the  due  of  even  the  most  entirely 
blameless.  He  was  angry  and  conscious  of  being 
undeservedly  ill  used. 

And  Anne  admitted  his  justification.  She  offered 
none  for  herself  —  a  humility  in  which  there  was  yet 
no  self-abasement.  That,  in  the  end,  was  all  upon 
Tetrault's  side.  He  fell  on  his  knees  in  front  of  her 
chair,  clinging  to  her  hands,  the  tears  running  down 
his  plump  cheeks,  pleading  with  her.  If  she  would 
send  Harnett  away,  even  if  she  were  not  ready  to 
marry  himself  now,  he  would  wait,  wait  as  long  as 
she  might  choose.  She  shrank  with  disgust,  a  mental 
and  physical  aversion.  She  could  have  struck  him 
off,  and  she  loathed  her  own  flesh  because  he  was 
touching  her;  but  she  forced  herself  to  be  kind.  It 
was  her  punishment  for  the  harm  she  had  done  him 
in  sheer  selfishness,  and  she  made  herself  take  it  with 
out  visible  flinching. 

"  It  is  no  use,  Paul,"  she  told  him.  "  You  have  been 
good  to  me  —  when  no  one  else,  except  my  brother, 


264  ANNE  CAKMEL 

was.  And  you  believed  in  me  against  everything.  You 
have  stood  a  great  deal  for  me.  I  know  it.  And  I 
will  remember  it.  But  —  you  must  understand  me. 
If  I  were  never  to  see  him  again,  if  he  were  to  die 
to-morrow,  I  know  now  that  I  could  never  marry  you." 

He  dropped  his  forehead  upon  her  lap.  She  was 
cruel  to  him,  he  moaned  —  cruel. 

Her  nerves  were  creeping.  But  she  raised  his  head 
and  looked  into  his  swimming  eyes.  "  There  are  a 
great  many  wrongs  that  I  have  done  you  and  myself, 
Paul,"  she  said.  "But  believe  this  —  the  greatest  to 
both  was  when  I  meant  to  marry  you." 

When  he  had  accepted  it  at  last,  and  was  going,  he 
stopped  with  his  hand  on  the  door,  hesitating.  Then 
he  brought  the  question  out.  Was  she  going  away 
with  —  the  other?  With  such  gentleness  as  she  could 
bring  to  it,  she  reminded  him  that  they  had  no  longer 
the  right  to  require  one  another's  confidences.  He 
went  down  the  garden,  openly  mopping  his  eyes. 

Anne  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  shivering  audibly, 
her  muscles  quivering,  her  fingers  twisted  together  and 
strained. 

In  the  late  afternoon  the  village  was  still  almost 
as  full  as  it  had  been  in  the  morning.  It  was  known 
that  Cecily  Thorne  was  to  sing  at  vespers,  and  it  had 
spread  abroad  that  she  had  fame  in  her  own  land. 
Tetrault  and  his  wife  drove  in. 

Madame  Tetrault's  whole  figure  told  of  satisfaction 


ANNE  CARMEL  265 

and  triumph.  She  collected  a  half-dozen  friends  and 
took  up  her  stand  close  to  the  door  of  the  church, 
her  husband  beside  her.  Anne,  coming  with  Cecily 
Thorne  through  the  front  gate  of  the  presbytere  and 
up  the  church  steps,  passed  her,  of  necessity,  within 
a  few  feet.  Madame's  voice  became  painstakingly 
audible.  "Yes,"  she  was  telling  it,  "Paul  heard  this 
morning  that  the  Englishman  had  returned,  and  had 
been  meeting  Mademoiselle  Carmel  in  Seailles'  cabin. 
And,  of  course,  he  was  obliged  to  refuse  to  marry  her." 

Anne's  face  went  the  color  of  the  stone  of  the 
church,  as  gray  and  as  hard.  But  Cecily  Thorne 
might  have  heard  nothing  of  more  import  than  the 
first  squeaky,  wheezy  notes  of  the  organ  to  which  she 
was  to  sing.  She  went  on  up  to  the  loft  from  whence 
they  came,  and  Anne  passed  into  the  church  alone. 

Neither  the  organ  nor  the  choir  at  St.  Hilaire  were 
such  as  to  afford  satisfaction  or  pride  to  Jean  Carmel, 
whose  appreciation  of  melody  was,  nevertheless,  as 
can  happen  with  those  yet  quite  devoid  of  any 
ability  to  produce  it,  the  most  deep  and  sensuous. 

The  soprano  was  one  whose  voice  proved  that  not 
every  Canadian  village  could  produce  its  Albani. 

Cecily,  from  her  place  high  up  at  the  back  of  the 
building,  looked  down  over  the  congregation,  square- 
built  mothers  and  daughters,  lost  to  even  the  pictur 
esque  in  their  Sunday  costumes,  grandmothers  whose 
youth  had  known  field  work  and  whose  shoulders 


266  ANNE  CARMEL 

were  too  much  bent,  fathers  and  sons,  ungainly  in 
their  best  suits  and  hats,  and  grandfathers,  quaint  in 
ill-fitting  homespun.  Anne  was  in  shadow,  close  to 
a  pillar,  kneeling,  the  beads  passing  through  her 
fingers.  The  acolytes  had  come  in  from  the  sacristy 
door  to  the  right  of  the  chancel,  bearing  each  a  wax 
candle,  the  flames  of  which  streamed  backward  in 
the  pale  daylight.  The  altar  of  Mary  was  elaborate 
in  laces  and  ornaments  and  flowers.  And  the  priest 
in  his  golden  robes  stood  before  the  golden  main 
altar,  in  the  midst  of  the  flickering  lights.  There 
was  much  in  this  church,  Cecily  could  not  but  think, 
to  appeal  to  emotional,  earthly,  and  fallible  man,  be 
cause  of  those  very  qualities  in  itself  —  compromises, 
they  might  be,  with  the  less  high,  but  making  it  the 
truer  to  human  nature  for  that,  and  so  the  better 
able  to  appeal  to  it,  the  better  understood  by  it. 
There  was  much  asked  of  the  heart  and  soul  of  these 
faithful  peasants,  nothing  of  their  intellect.  The 
latter  was  rather  to  be  lulled  to  sleep,  making  the 
faith  a  haven  of  repose,  which  the  more  exacting 
Protestant  ones  could  never  be. 

There  came  back  to  her  the  memory  of  her  specu 
lations,  the  day  she  had  watched  him  in  the  meadow 
by  the  river,  under  the  new-leafing  oak  tree.  Had  any 
woman,  kneeling  down  there  in  the  church,  pressed 
together,  in  prayer,  fingers  which  in  her  thoughts  were 
touching  the  brown  hair  of  the  bending  head? 


ANNE  CARMEL  267 

The  harsh  little  organ  was  complaining  a  prelude. 
The  tenor  opened  her  music  and  held  it  out  to  her. 
And  to  Jean  Carmel  there  floated  down  the  same  voice 
he  had  heard  once  before  as  he  had  waited,  listening, 
in  the  cold  pink  stillness  of  a  new  day. 

But  now  the  soft  notes  were  rich  in  the  sonorous 
Latin,  and  swelled  and  fell  without  a  break,  —  swelled 
and  fell  and  rose  again. 

The  little  thurif er  swung  his  silver  censer ;  the  glitter 
ing  Host  was  exposed  before  the  congregation,  set  on 
high ;  the  incense  smoked,  shimmering  and  iridescent 
in  the  light  of  the  candles,  up  to  the  painted  images 
above  the  altar  ;  the  one  mellow  voice  soared  out  in  the 
triumph  of  its  song,  —  while  the  sun  fell  through  a  win 
dow,  across  the  chancel,  and  full  on  the  priest,  his  head 
bowed,  his  soul  and  senses  thrilled  with  the  beauty  of 
sound. 

He  came  to  her  afterward,  when  the  villagers  had 
gone  on  their  ways  at  last,  their  minds  diverted  for 
the  nonce  from  the  Cure's  sister  to  his  guest.  She 
was  wandering  in  the  high-walled  churchyard,  through 
the  thick  grass  and  violet  plants,  looking  at  the  head 
stones,  greened  and  damp  with  moss,  and  the  black 
crosses,  little  and  tall,  of  wood  or  iron.  "  Ici-git,  Ici- 
repose,  Priez  pour  lui  " — the  names  and  the  dates. 

And  when  all  was  said  and  done,  it  mattered  so 
slightly  whether  the  dates  were  close  together  or  well 
apart.  Even  the  last-named  year  on  some  of  the  de- 


268  ANNE  CABMBL 

faced  older  stones  was  quite  a  time  away,  and  the  rank 
grass  and  thick  violet  leaves  were  straggling  where 
had  been  a  mound,  and  now  was  only  a  sinking  of  the 
earth.  Those  were  the  dead,  forgotten  and  out  of 
mind.  And  not  only  they.  Others,  over  whose  low- 
lying  heads  only  a  few  seasons  had  passed,  were  no 
more  remembered,  though  there  still  lived  some  in 
whose  lives  they  had  closely  shared.  Whether  or  no 
it  had  been  the  fault  of  themselves,  their  places  must 
have  been  soon  filled.  The  flowers  on  their  graves 
were  brown  sheaves,  or  dried  stems  in  some  old, 
cracked  goblet  or  jug.  Or  perhaps  a  red  earthen 
ware  pot  was  broken  apart,  showing  worthless  roots. 
They  were  more  dreary,  those,  than  the  hollows  be 
neath  the  toppling  slabs. 

"There  is  one  who  has  not  been  forgotten,"  Jean 
Carmel  said  to  her.  He  took  her  to  the  corner  near 
the  high-arched  gate  and  pointed  out  a  stone.  "  It  was 
here,"  he  told  her,  "  before  I  built  the  church.  A  good 
many  of  the  graves  were;  it  was  the  burying  place 
then."  There  was  only  one  name  on  the  stone  — 
Pierrot,  and  the  dates  beneath  it  were  but  four  years 
apart,  to  the  day.  He  gave  her  the  story. 

Pierrot  had  been  the  little  son  of  a  woman  who  had 
lived  here  on  her  terre  among  the  forests,  before  the 
village  had  come  to  be,  and  he  had  died  almost  half  a 
century  before.  Yet  twice  every  week  in  all  that  time, 
winter  and  summer,  the  mother  had  toiled  here  from 


ANNE  CAKMEL  269 

the  patch  of  land  she  called  her  farm.  She  was  a  very 
old  woman  now,  a  grandmother ;  but  her  dead  was  not 
out  of  mind.  In  winter  the  snow  was  always  scraped 
off  from  this  one  grave ;  in  summer  the  withered  arms 
still  swung  the  scythe  which  cut  down  the  grass,  and 
the  flowers  were  always  new.  He  stood,  considering 
the  little  well-tended  oblong  of  ground.  "The  case 
could  never  have  been  reversed,"  he  said  slowly.  "  It 
could  never  be  a  child  who  would  remember  so  long. 
With  the  animals  filial  affection  does  not  exist ;  and  with 
us  it  is  a  cultivated  sentiment,  not  an  inherent  one.  It 
is  the  divine  plan,  it  seems,  for  love  to  flow,  not  back 
ward,  but  on."  He  turned  sharply  away,  throwing  back 
his  head.  "  And  the  priest  of  the  church  must  frustrate 
it  at  its  source,"  he  said.  But  it  was  between  his  teeth, 
and  she  did  not  hear. 

The  whole  family  of  the  Gerards  had  come  in 
through  the  stone  gateway,  and  madame  carried  a 
bunch  of  marguerites  to  lay  on  her  father's  grave. 
Ce"cile  preceded  her,  with  a  tiny  bunch  of  her  own. 
Jean  Carmel  went  toward  them  and  stood  talking.  He 
bent  over  and  held  out  his  hand  to  the  child.  She  put 
her's  gravely  into  it.  Then  they  kept  on.  But  Cecile 
stopped  short  upon  a  sudden,  and  turned  up  to  her 
mother  a  cherub  face,  in  a  mist  of  flaxen  hair. 
"  Why  — "  she  asked,  and  the  childish  treble  of  her 
lisp  carried  far  —  "why  does  M'sieu' le  Cure"  call  me 
sometimes  —  Ce-cie-lie  ?  " 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE  big  scarlet  poppies  were  not  the  only  ones  in  the 
presbyter e  garden.  By  the  other  side  of  the  house 
there  was  a  long,  narrow  bed  of  more  delicate  ones, 
pink  and  crimson  and  white,  on  slender  stems,  needing 
much  care  and  the  finest  weather,  both  of  which  they 
had  had.  They  were  just  beneath  the  window  of 
Cecily's  room,  and  in  the  misty  gray  of  the  early 
morning  she  put  back  the  cumbersome,  solid  shutter, 
and  leaned  out,  looking  down  at  them  —  the  results  of 
the  package  of  seeds  which  she  herself  had  sent. 

The  breeze  was  still  lost  in  the  soft  cloud  fleece,  and 
the  air  was  full  of  a  fine  vapor,  clinging  to  everything, 
frosting  the  leaves  of  the  vines,  and  making  the  poppies 
hang  down  limp  and  dripping  heads.  Then  there 
came  the  first  soft  gust  of  south  wind,  and  they  tossed 
about,  opening,  nodding  to  the  scattering  river  fog  and 
to  the  bits  of  faintly  blue  sky  which  began  to  show. 

She  had  reached  out  and  snapped  off  a  gauzy  white 
one.  It  had  been  coldly  colorless  until  the  sun  had 
touched  it,  then  it  had  seemed  to  quiver  through  all  its 
petals,  showing  the  yellow  of  the  stamens,  and  lights 

270 


ANNE  CAKMEL  271 

like  the  fire  of  opals,  shimmering  pink  stains,  blue  and 
amber  gleams,  chill  tints,  dainty  and  elusive  as  those 
of  dawn. 

Cecily  felt  that  some  one  was  watching  her.  It  was 
Jean  Carmel.  He  had  come  to  within  a  few  feet, 
along  the  grass  at  the  edge  of  the  gravel  path,  and 
had  stopped  there,  watching  how  the  sun  which  had 
brought  rainbow  hues  into  the  poppy  had  glinted 
through  the  pale  hair  of  the  head  framed  in  the  win 
dow  casing  and  the  drooping  pink  honeysuckle  vine. 

He  had  broken  a  crimson  rose  from  one  of  the  bushes 
at  the  front  of  the  house,  and  he  went  over  now  and 
reached  it  out  to  her  across  the  multicolored  bed. 
"  This,"  he  said,  "  will  keep  its  beauty  —  whether  in 
sun  or  shadow.  It  will  send  out  its  sweetness  even 
when  it  is  dying,  and  afterward  the  petals  can  be  kept 
and  will  give  out  their  perfume  still.  But  that  poppy 
—  take  it  from  the  sunshine,  and  its  beauty  is  gone 
at  once.  It  will  last  but  a  little  time  at  the  best. 
Then  you  will  find  a  thin,  wisp  of  stem,  with  a  halo  of 
yellow  rays.  The  petals  will  be  lying  shrivelled  on 
the  floor,  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  thrown  away." 

"  And    the    key    to    the    parable  ? "    she    inquired. 

"  The  key  to  the  parable  —  the  which  is  spon 
taneous,  by  the  bye,  upon  the  inspiration  of  the 
moment,  and  most  creditable  too  for  half  after  six 
o'clock  —  the  key  is  this  :  that  the  rose  is  for  those 
whose  beauty  is  from  within,  and  whose  soul  sends  out 


272  ANNE   CAKMEL 

its  own  influence  ;  the  poppy,  for  those  whose  life 
must  come  all  from  without,  and  who  are  only  lovely  in 
the  sunlight  of  happiness.  Some  day,"  he  finished, 
with  an  air  of  much  satisfaction,  "  I  shall  incorporate 
that  in  a  sermon  —  as  a  flower  of  speech." 

The  sexton  came  around  from  the  front.  He  was  in 
garments  of  ceremony  and  carried  white  cotton  gloves. 
Monday  and  the  mass  being  the  preferred  time  for 
weddings,  he  was  to  be  married  that  morning  to  Ame- 
lie  Latouche.  And  there  was  to  follow  festivity  — 
with  Coppee  to  furnish  music  for  dancing  in  the  one- 
room  cottage  which  was  the  sexton's  abode,  and  would 
henceforth  be  Amelie's,  save  during  the  day,  when  she 
would  continue  to  work  for  Pere  Carmel. 

The  sexton  had  arrangements  to  make  with  m'sieu', 
who  went  off  with  him,  returned  for  breakfast  after  the 
ceremony,  and  took  his  departure  again  immediately. 

Amelie  being,  in  consideration  of  the  event,  excused 
from  domestic  duties  for  the  day,  those  fell  upon  Anne, 
who,  believing  that,  though  an  heiress,  Yvonne  should 
nevertheless  learn  to  become  a  house-mistress,  had 
pressed  that  sturdy  small  damsel  into  service. 

Cecily  sat  in  the  garden  reading  for  a  while.  Then 
she  started  off  into  the  woods. 

About  a  third  of  a  league  from  the  village,  and 
beside  a  path  which  led  more  directly  than  the  road 
to  the  Tetrault  farm,  there  was  a  small  lake  where 
the  water-lilies  and  iris  grew  thickly,  and  were,  as  a 


ANNE  CARMEL  278 

general  thing,  left  severely  alone  by  the  utilitarian 
habitant.  Cecily  meant  to  gather  some  of  the  lilies 
for  Anne,  reaching  from  the  bank  or  going  out  on 
jutting  stones  ;  but  it  was  still  too  soon  to  go  directly 
back  with  them.  She  went  in  among  the  trees,  and 
lay  down  on  a  grassy  slope  in  a  little  open  space,  her 
hands  clasped  under  her  head,  looking  indolently  up 
through  her  lashes  at  the  branches  far  against  the  blue 
sky,  watching  the  drifting  over  of  occasional  gray- 
edged  clouds. 

The  usual  safety  of  hill  districts  was  enhanced  by 
the  generally  law-abiding  character  of  the  people,  and 
there  was  little  to  fear  from  the  molestation  of  either 
man  or  beast.  Nevertheless,  when,  after  a  time,  she 
heard  the  faint  crackling  of  the  bushes,  she  raised 
herself  quickly,  and  her  hand  went  to  the  pocket  which 
always  held  a  tiny  revolver. 

It  was  only,  however,  Jean  Carmel,  coming  along 
the  path,  through  the  isle  of  trees,  and  still  some  dis 
tance  away  in  the  flickering  sunshine  and  shade.  He 
walked  with  the  movements  of  the  woodsman,  but  he 
had  not  just  then  the  woodsman's  roving  eye,  which 
misses  no  signs  or  tracks.  He  was  looking  directly 
down  the  path  as  he  came  on,  and,  until  Cecily  spoke 
to  him,  did  not  see  her.  He  glanced  around  quickly, 
taken  unprepared  and  stopping  short.  Then,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  gives  up  the  effort  against  contrary 

Fate,  and  has  no  choice  left  him  but  to  make  the  best 
T 


274  ANNE   CAEMEL 

of  a  situation,  he  turned  aside,  and  sat  down  at  a  little 
distance  from  her,  on  a  fallen  trunk.  He  had  been, 
he  explained,  to  see  a  parishioner,  who,  being  ill  and 
repentant,  had  sent  for  him.  "It  was  a  trivial  mat 
ter.  I  have  noticed  that  there  is  usually  most  to-do 
over  little  sins.  Those  sting  the  conscience,  I  suppose. 
The  larger  stun  it,  probably." 

She  looked  at  him  speculatively,  biting  at  the  ten 
der  white  root  of  a  blade  of  grass  she  had  pulled. 
And,  almost  without  her  own  intention,  there  passed 
her  lips  the  question  she  had  never  yet  asked,  either 
of  him  or  Anne  —  how  it  had  come  about  that  he  had 
chosen  the  priesthood  for  his  life-work. 

It  was  not  in  the  least  the  story  of  fervent  impulse 
and  vocation  admitting  of  no  refusal,  and  neither  was 
it  that  of  the  self-deception  she  had  more  than  half 
expected.  To  her  Protestant  mind,  trained  in  the 
midst  of  totally  different  conditions  from  the  almost 
mediaeval  ones  among  which  Jean  Carmel  had  grown 
up,  it  was  perplexing  that  a  man  completely  hon 
est  with  himself  could  hold  the  doctrines  he  did  in 
all  sincerity.  But  the  tale  was  a  very  commonplace 
one  of  the  choice  of  an  occupation,  guided  by  the 
wishes  of  parents  who  had  planned  it  for  him,  even 
before  his  birth  and  from  his  childhood  on,  kept  the 
end  in  view.  As  prosaic  a  matter,  upon  the  whole, 
she  concluded,  as  the  taking  of  orders  by  the  average 
English  cleric.  The  family  of  a  priest  here,  he  ex- 


ANNE  CARMEL  275 

plained  to  her,  was  bound  to  be  respectable,  and  the 
calling  itself  was  looked  upon  as  creditable.  Perhaps 
too  frequently,  also,  it  was  looked  upon  as  a  means  of 
making  a  better  income  than  some  of  them  would 
otherwise  be  likely  to.  But,  in  his  own  case,  there 
had  not  been  that  motive.  "  Until  just  before  I  came 
to  this  parish,"  he  said  simply,  "  we  were  by  no  means 
poor."  And  his  grandfather,  he  told  her,  was  still  a 
rich  man,  —  "who  holds  out  to  me,"  he  added,  "by 
way  of  inducement  to  forsake  my  present  walk  of  life 
for  that  of  other  men,  offers  of  a  worldly  sort  not  to 
be  scorned."  He  was  apparently  willing  to  talk  of 
himself  and  his  affairs  now,  and  as  a  rule  he  was  dis 
tinctly  taciturn  upon  the  subject.  Had  he  ever,  she 
asked  him,  thought  of  accepting  the  offer  ?  He  snapped 
a  twig  from  the  trunk  and  tossed  it  over  at  the  lake. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  thought  of  it."  The  tone  by 
no  means  encouraged  her  to  ask  further.  She  sat, 
bending  forward,  with  her  chin  in  her  hand,  seeing 
the  lush  stretch  of  moving  brake  in  the  distance  of 
the  woods. 

As  a  rule  he  was  a  man  of  long  silences,  given  to 
reserve,  but  he  spoke  now  as  one  who  wanted  speech 
upon  any  terms,  and  he  brought  it  with  a  question  of 
his  own,  intended  as  an  audible  barrier  to  his  own 
thoughts,  a  plain  reminder  to  himself  of  the  actual 
conditions  which  separated  him  from  her.  When,  he 
asked,  was  she  to  be  married?  She  did  not  change 


276  ANNE   CABMEL 

her  position  or  turn  her  eyes  to  him.  "  I  am  not  to  be 
married,"  she  said.  "  I  decided  it  —  some  time  ago." 

A  cedar-bird  flew  slowly  away  from  above  their 
heads,  showing  the  flecks  of  crimson  under  the  wings, 
and  dropped  down  into  the  thicket,  misty  in  the  dis 
tance  of  little  straight  trunks,  dead  branches,  and  gray 
hanging  moss.  There  was  the  crisp,  dry  rustle  of  the 
glittering-leaved  aspens  by  the  edge  of  the  pond  where 
the  lilies  stirred  in  a  breeze.  A  chipmunk  came  out 
on  the  limb  of  a  fluffy  stone  pine,  rough  Avith  lichen. 
It  looked  down,  twinkling  its  eyes,  then,  switching  its 
tail  behind  its  head,  sat  up  and  scolded  squeakily. 

Jean  Carmel  had  got  to  his  feet.  "  It  must  be  near 
noon,"  he  said,  sighting  the  sun.  And  he  waited  for 
her  to  rise.  He  made  no  offer  to  help  her.  They 
went  down  to  the  path,  and  he  stood  aside  to  let  her 
pass.  It  was  too  narrow  for  them  to  walk  side  by  side. 
She  went  on,  without  speaking,  feeling  that  he  was  just 
behind,  and  that  his  eyes  were  on  her.  Against  her 
will  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  up  at  him.  "  The 
poppy  in  your  hair  is  dead,"  he  said.  His  voice  was 
being  controlled.  She  gave  a  nervous  half-laugh,  and, 
taking  the  flower  out,  let  it  drop  from  unsteady  fin 
gers.  It  touched  a  big  spray  of  bracken,  and  all  the 
wilted  white  petals  fell  off.  A  breath  of  wind  puffed 
them  away. 

As  she  walked  on  in  front  of  him  she  could  see  one 
of  his  hands.  It  was  strained  shut  until  the  knuckles 


ANNE   CARMEL  277 

showed  livid  through  the  brown.  One  of  the  heavy 
clouds  which  had  been  in  the  sky  all  the  forenoon  had 
hidden  the  sun.  It  passed,  and  the  whole  forest  burst 
into  light,  glinting  far  off  among  the  trunks,  bringing 
out  a  white  or  silver  birch,  or  a  burnished  red  cherry, 
touching  a  pine  to  bright  green,  and  spreading  over  the 
soft  sea  of  brake. 

The  shimmering  film  of  a  big,  drifting  cobweb  floated 
down  and  settled  upon  her  hair  and  face.  It  clung  in 
her  lashes,  blinding  and  dazzling  her.  She  tripped  on 
an  uncovered  root,  and  threw  out  her  hand.  It  touched 
another,  and  was  caught  —  and  held. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

PAUL  TETRAULT  had  been  on  his  way  home  for 
the  midday  dinner.  He  had  taken  neither  the  road  nor 
the  path,  but  had  kept  near  the  latter  among  the  big 
rocks  along  the  edge  of  the  hill,  just  above,  where  there 
was  always  twilight,  even  at  noon,  where  the  dew  was 
never  dry  on  the  leaves  of  the  little  pale  plants  —  the 
bunch-berries  and  jacks  and  lilies  that  came  up  sparsely 
in  the  shade.  Looking  down,  his  eyes  had  caught  a 
glint  of  tan  which  was  not  that  of  the  sunlight  on  the 
dry  pine  drift. 

It  moved,  and  he  thought  it  must  be  some  woman's 
dress,  Cecily  Thome's  most  probably.  And  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  he  was  not  in  haste,  and  felt 
idly  inclined  to  make  sure,  he  turned  a  little  aside 
and  went  nearer  down  through  the  shadow,  where  his 
footsteps  made  no  noise  on  the  springy  depths  of 
moss  and  needles  and  mould.  He  stopped  abruptly.  It 
was  not  only  Cecily  Thome  in  the  sun-flooded  space 
of  the  pathway.  It  was  Monsieur  Carmel  as  well. 
He  moved  over  to  a  tree,  and,  leaning  against  it,  folded 
his  arms  on  his  chest,  deliberately  watching.  His 

278 


ANNE  CABMBL  279 

eyebrows  were  raised  knowingly,  and  he  nodded  his 
head  at  intervals,  with  that  satisfaction  which  one  finds 
in  seeing  one's  worst  beliefs  or  prophecies  justified, 
deriving,  upon  the  whole,  more  contentment  from  that 
than  from  the  keeping  of  a  faith  or  an  ideal.  He  had 
hinted  of  this  to  Anne,  and  she  had  shrivelled  his  very 
soul  with  one  look.  And,  moreover,  Jean  Carmel  had 
indubitably  behaved  toward  him  in  a  way  that  had 
been  anything  but  encouraging,  during  all  the  time  of 
his  engagement. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  a  good  impulse  which,  as  soon  as 
the  two  in  the  path  below  had  gone  on,  started  him 
back  to  the  village,  by  the  way  he  had  come.  Anne, 
the  only  one  who  could  possibly  avert  evil,  ought  to  be 
warned.  It  was  to  warn  her  that  he  was  going  — 
until  he  was  almost  at  the  presbytere  it  was  only  that. 
Then  another  thought  came  to  him,  mixing  the  mo 
tives.  He  had  been  hurrying  by  short  cuts  ;  but  the 
startling  possibilities  struck  him  still  and  gasping,  the 
possibilities  that  would  lie  in  making  the  right  use  of 
what  he  had  just  seen.  Told  abroad  —  told  even  into 
one  well-chosen  ear,  his  mother's,  for  instance,  —  it 
would  mean  the  disgracing  of  Jean  Carmel  in  the  parish 
and  farther.  But  he  would  not  tell  it.  He  would 
keep  it  to  himself,  now  and  always,  on  one  condition  — 
that  Anne  should  marry  him. 

It  would  lie  with  her  to  buy  his  silence  and  her 
brother's  honor.  And  she  would  pay  the  price  he  meant 


280  ANNE  CARMEL 

to  ask.  As  to  that  he  had  no  doubts.  Of  the  legitimacy 
of  such  methods  of  compulsion  he  had,  however.  But 
he  allayed  those  sufficiently  well.  Was  he  not  saving 
her  from  Harnett  and  ruin,  saving  her  name  and  soul? 
He  was  even  able  to  work  himself  to  a  frame  of  mind 
closely  approaching  virtuous  self-satisfaction  over  this 
phase  of  it. 

His  love  for  Anne  had  changed  its  character  from 
the  self-abnegating  affection  of  the  past.  Then  she 
had  been  the  young  girl  whom  he  revered  from  afar, 
humbly  conscious  of  her  manifold  superiorities.  Now 
she  was  a  woman,  wholly  of  the  earth  in  her  tempta 
tions  and  faults,  wholly  of  the  flesh  in  her  hold  on 
him.  She  had  come  too  near  to  being  his  wife  to  make 
giving  her  up  a  mere  matter  of  foregoing  a  sentiment. 
He  wanted  her  now,  and  in  any  way  that  he  could  get 
her. 

He  not  only  hurried  on  to  the  presbytere.     He  ran. 

Yvonne  was  the  only  one  in  the  house.  She  was  in 
the  kitchen.  When  he  asked  for  Anne  she  stared  at 
him  because  he  was  breathless.  Then  gradually  she 
pointed  to  the  barn,  with  a  big  spoon,  all  purple  and 
dripping  with  the  juice  of  some  stewing  prunes  she  had 
just  stirred.  And,  suddenly  observing  the  syrupy 
drops  on  the  floor,  she  put  the  spoon  back  in  the  pot, 
and,  falling  on  her  knees,  began  to  wipe  them  up  with 
the  big  gingham  apron  of  Anne's  which  was  tied 
around  her  neck  and  hung  to  the  ground. 


ANNE  CARMBL  281 

Tetrault  went  out  to  the  barn.  It  was  not  only  the 
woodshed  and  the  old  sorrel's  stable ;  it  was  also  the 
favorite  laying  place  of  the  chickens. 

Anne  had  gone  out  to  hunt  for  eggs  ;  and  Antoine, 
having  come  slouching  aimlessly  in,  had  been  told  to 
climb  in  back  of  a  pile  of  wood  and  a  diminished  stack 
of  last  year's  hay,  to  help  in  the  search.  He  was  not 
visible  when  Paul  appeared  in  the  wide  doorway.  To 
all  seeming  Anne  was  alone.  She  looked  her  astonish 
ment  at  seeing  him  at  all,  and  that  with  a  flushed  and 
agitated  face,  the  perspiration  trickling  over  it  from 
his  damp  curls.  Then  she  had  a  quick  fear.  Was  it 
Jean  —  had  anything  happened  to  her  brother  ? 

Yes,  it  was  Jean,  he  said  meaningly.  He  put  out  his 
hand  and  pushed  her  back.  Monsieur  Carmel  was  not 
hurt  —  neither  in  danger.  And  he  did  not  keep  her  in 
suspense.  He  was  by  no  means  anxious  to  have  the 
Cure  and  Miss  Thorne,  nor  any  one  else,  for  that 
matter,  arrive  upon  the  scene  before  he  should  have 
brought  things  to  where  he  wanted  them.  Anne  had  no 
time  to  warn  him  of  Antoine  and  cut  him  off.  He  had 
come  out,  in  a  dozen  words  that  tripped  one  other  in 
their  haste,  with  what  he  had  seen  in  the  path  —  no 
more,  to  be  sure,  than  would  have  been  right  and 
proper  and  even  desirable  between  all  other  young 
men  and  maidens,  but  was  clearly,  here,  an  evil  and  a 
shameful  thing. 

He   had  gone  near  to    Anne  and  closed  his  coarse 


282  ANNE  CARMEL 

fingers  on  her  wrist,  with  the  tyranny  of  a  small  will 
given  power.  She  jerked  herself  free,  but  she  shrank  a 
little  too.  Antoine  came  clambering  over  the  haystack, 
carrying  with  utmost  care  his  remains  of  a  straw  hat  — 
three  eggs  inside  the  crown.  There  was  nothing  in  his 
face  by  which  to  judge  how  much  or  how  little  he  had 
heard.  His  was  no  habitant  density,  but  the  quickness 
of  Irishman  and  Indian  combined.  And,  without  demur, 
he  obeyed  Anne's  suggestion  that  he  should  take  the 
eggs  in  to  Yvonne  —  going  forthwith. 

He  returned  also,  but  neither  Anne  nor  Paul  knew 
that.  He  was  fairly  well  hidden  behind  the  cow  shed, 
and  his  ear  and  his  eye  were  alternately  pressed  to  a 
knothole  most  advantageously  located  for  his  purposes. 
He  heard  Tetrault  make  his  proposition,  setting  forth 
the  wisdom  of  accepting  it  out  of  hand,  concisely  and 
with  small  pains  to  pick  pleasant  words.  Anne  should 
promise  to  marry  him,  then  and  there,  or  the  parish 
should  learn  his  story. 

Antoine,  not  hearing  anything  further  at  once,  used 
his  eye.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  Tetrault 
waiting,  with  plain  impatience,  casting  a  glance  out  of 
the  door  from  time  to  time,  and  Anne,  standing  still, 
twisting  a  breastpin  on  the  front  of  her  gown.  Her 
lips  moved,  and  Antoine  listened  again.  It  seemed 
that  she  had  expressed  doubts  of  the  story.  Tetrault 
laughed  rudely.  "It  is  true,"  he  said.  "And  you 
know  it  is.  So  will  all  the  parish,  if  I  tell  it.  They 


She  accepted  it  all  quietly,   making  no  useless  protestations 
or  complaints." 


ANNE   CAEMEL  283 

have  wondered  why  the  girl  came  back.  They  will  find 
this  the  explanation."  He  held  the  whip  and  was  crack 
ing  it  over  her.  He  specified  conditions.  With  fine 
instinct  for  his  own  safety  —  her  brother  was  to  know 
nothing  of  the  cause  of  her  changed  decision.  And, 
with  equal  astuteness  —  she  was  not  to  see  Harnett  at 
all  again.  She  might  write,  once  only,  but  he  himself 
was  to  first  read  the  letter.  She  accepted  it  all  quietly, 
making  no  useless  protestations  or  complaints. 

And  in  reward  for  her  docility  he  deigned  to  give  his 
consent  to  her  one  request,  that  for  a  week  he  should 
keep  the  renewed  engagement  to  himself.  He  was  not 
loath  to  do  that,  in  any  case,  since  the  evil  hour  with 
his  parents  would  be  postponed  thereby. 

He  made  her  seal  the  barter  with  a  kiss.  Then  he 
went.  Antoine  went,  too,  but  by  the  back  gate. 

And  Anne  stood  where  she  was,  in  the  half -gloom  of 
the  quiet  barn.  The  wide-open  door  showed  the  puls 
ing  sunlight,  the  pigeons  moving  about  on  the  ground, 
Pilote  asleep  with  her  nose  between  her  paws,  and  two 
new  little  chickens  hopping  over  her  back  and  head,  in 
vestigating,  and  inquiringly  pecking  at  her  hair  without 
disturbing  her.  She  was  conscious  of  all  that,  and  of  the 
murmuring  heat  song  of  the  dusting  hens,  keeping  up 
steadily  and  incessantly.  In  some  distant  yard  another 
hen  was  cackling  with  insistence,  and  a  calf  somewhere, 
was  baaing  for  its  mother.  The  bees  who  had  been  told 
off  from  the  hive  to  keep  it  cool  that  day  were  buzzing 


284  ANNE  CARMEL 

steadily  by  the  opening,  making  a  tiny  draught  and  an 
even  droning  sound  with  their  hard-working  wings. 

She  went  slowly  over  to  the  empty  stall  and  laid  her 
arm  upon  the  edge,  bowing  her  head  on  it.  She  was 
very  still.  A  pigeon  came  waddling  upon  its  thin 
red  legs,  crossing  the  rough  floor,  picking  some  stray 
bits  of  white  and  yellow  corn,  at  the  very  edge  of  her 
skirt.  Once  she  looked  up  and  stared  blindly  at  the 
line  of  light  showing  through  a  crack  in  the  boards  in 
front  of  her.  Then  her  head  went  down  again,  mov 
ing  from  side  to  side  in  the  restlessness  of  suffering. 

She  heard  Jean's  voice  calling  to  her,  and  she 
straightened  herself,  resolutely  gathering  courage. 
He  was  coming  toward  the  barn,  looking  for  her.  It 
was  incredible,  the  power  of  expressing  nothing,  of  the 
human  face  and  eyes.  In  his  there  was  not  a  trace  of 
emotion  of  any  sort,  —  happiness,  or  trouble,  or  shame. 
She  could  almost  have  doubted  Tetrault,  yet  her 
brother  substantiated  the  story  in  so  far  as  to  say  that 
he  had  come  by  the  lake  path  and  had  met  Cecily. 
And  there  was  a  bit  of  thin  silver  chain  showing 
against  Cecily's  neck.  Paul  had  said  that  she  had 
drawn  forth  a  little  silver  cross  and  showed  it  to  Jean, 
and  Anne  had  recalled  that  it  was  long  since  she  had 
seen  the  Gray  Nun's  cross.  The  poppy  was  not  in  the 
pale  hair.  Paul  had  told  her  how  it  had  been  taken 
out  and  dropped. 

Yet  they  spoke,  the  three  of  them,  of  Amelie's  wed- 


ANNE  CARMEL  285 

ding  dance,  which  had  been  going  on  all  the  morning. 
And  there  came  over  Anne  the  dazing  sense  of  that 
doubleness  of  life  which,  sometimes,  in  one  normal 
moment,  makes  all  the  passion  and  tragedy  of  the 
moment  before  seem  not  quite  real.  She  felt  a 
wretched  disgust  with  all  human  nature  which  could 
be  so  outwardly  false  to  itself,  which  was  so  false  to 
itself  in  her  as  she  talked  of  indifferent  things. 

It  was  against  Cecily  she  was  bitter.  The  soft,  con 
templative  eyes,  and  the  almost  deprecating  forward 
droop  of  the  head  —  Madame  Carmel  had  insisted  they 
were  to  be  distrusted.  And  she  had  been  right. 

Under  different  circumstances,  Anne  wondered, 
would  she  have  so  much  as  noticed  the  silences  that 
came  over  them  while  they  sat  at  dinner.  Would  it 
have  seemed  to  her  that  Jean  was  a  little  absent,  and 
Cecily  somewhat  quiet  and  dreamy?  Jean  was  often 
absent  when  he  had  parish  matters  on  his  mind.  And 
it  was  Cecily's  way,  frequently,  to  dream. 

But  it  was  afterward  that  the  unmistakably  un 
wonted  happened,  when  her  brother  went  to  his  own 
room,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  Cecily,  pleading 
the  need  for  rest,  went  away  also. 

Anne  was  left  alone.  She  took  her  work  out  to  the 
garden.  Yvonne  was  playing  under  her  shawl  house, 
by  the  cellar  door.  Etienne  was  not  with  her.  She 
left  the  dolls  and  came  over  to  the  apple  tree,  swinging 
against  one  of  the  low  boughs,  and  asking  for  a  story. 


286  ANNE  CARMEL 

Anne  gave  her  one  mechanically,  out  of  the  store  of 
miscellaneous  bits  of  history  she  had  got  from  her 
brother  and  his  books.  She  knew  it  by  heart  and  told 
it  without  thinking  what  she  said.  Yvonne,  with  a 
child's  quick  feeling  in  such  matters,  realized  the  lack 
of  interest  and  enthusiasm  in  the  teller,  and  reflected 
it.  She  waited  to  the  finish,  studying  Anne  critically 
and  without  approval,  her  round,  black  eyes  fixed, 
chewing  meditatively  at  the  end  of  one  of  her  braids. 
She  did  not  ask  for  more,  but,  by  a  method  of  rolling 
her  body  over  and  using  hands  and  knees,  scrambled 
up  and  departed  back  to  the  shawl  house. 

Anne  hardly  noticed  that  she  had  gone. 

The  old  lifelong  habits  of  reticence  between  herself 
and  Jean,  their  rule  of  forcing  no  confidences  from  each 
other  made  her  hesitate  to  ask  the  direct  question  which 
would  determine  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  Paul 
Tetrault's  informing.  Yet  she  would  do  it.  Without 
definite  knowledge  she  would  not  give  herself  to  that 
marriage.  If  it  were  true,  Jean  need  not  know  from 
whence  she  had  it. 

There  were,  as  she  saw  it,  three  loopholes  of  escape 
for  her.  The  first  was  that  everything  had  been  a 
fiction  of  Paul's  own  inventing.  But  she  had  no  hope 
of  that.  Paul  lacked  the  daring  and  wit  to  plan  in 
any  such  complicated  wise.  And  was  not  the  circum 
stantial  evidence  of  the  bit  of  silver  chain,  the  poppy, 
and  the  meeting,  little  short  of  unquestionable? 


ANNE  CARMEL  287 

As  for  the  second  chance,  it  was  hardly  one  that 
she  wished  for,  even  to  get  her  own  release.  It  was 
that  Jean  should  mean  to  marry  Cecily,  as  he  could 
easily  do,  so  far  as  mere  worldly  considerations  were 
concerned.  The  keeping  of  the  secret  would  be  of  no 
avail,  in  that  case.  And  he  would  marry  her  or  re 
nounce  her  altogether.  As  to  there  being  for  him  any 
middle  course,  it  was  not  worth  the  considering.  He 
had  said  once,  in  one  of  his  fruitless  attempts  to  show 
her  Harnett  with  his  own  eyes,  "To  care  for  a 
woman  would  mean,  for  me,  to  protect  her  —  even 
from  myself."  And  she  knew  that  it  was  so.  The 
third  chance  was  that  Antoine  had  heard,  and  would 
tell,  upon  his  own  account.  That,  however,  was  very 
improbable.  The  Metis  was  not  talkative,  and  he  was 
loyal.  Nevertheless,  he  must  be  seen  and  silenced. 

And  precisely  at  the  moment  he  appeared  at  the 
front  gate,  opened  it,  and  came  in. 

He  took  the  chair  near  Anne's  and  leaned  toward 
her.  "  I  heard,"  he  said. 

"  I  supposed  so,"  said  Anne,  going  on  with  her  knit 
ting.  "  But  you  will  not  repeat  it,  of  course  ?  "  It 
was  less  a  question  than  an  assertion. 

"No,"  said  Antoine,  "I  wont  repeat  it."  And  she 
asked  for  no  further  assurance.  It  was  not  neces 
sary.  He  sat  considering  her  quick  needles.  Then 
he  began  again.  "  You  need  not  marry  Paul  Tetrault," 
he  said.  She  turned  to  him  quickly.  He  was  in  no 


288  ANNE  CABMBL 

wise  disturbed.  "  You  need  not,"  he  repeated,  "  unless 
you  want  to."  She  did  not  have  to  ask  him  how  he 
knew  anything  of  all  that.  She  guessed  at  once.  He 
had  managed  in  some  way  to  listen. 

"I  went  after  him,"  he  continued.  "He  took  the 
path,  the  same  path,  and  I  followed.  When  we  were 
by  the  pond  where  the  lilies  are,  I  made  him  stop.  And 
you  won't  have  to  marry  him.  I  am  telling  you  so 
now,  and  before  to-night  he  will  come  and  tell  you 
so,  too."  It  took  some  diplomacy  to  bring  about  even 
the  outline  of  an  explanation.  But  Anne  pieced  to 
gether,  with  considerable  supply  of  imagination,  that 
Antoine  had  blocked  Paul's  way,  putting  himself  in 
the  path  and  refusing  to  move  until  he  had  pointed 
out  to  the  terrified  habitant  that  to  open  his  mouth  as 
to  the  Cure  and  the  American  woman  would  be  to 
bring  upon  himself  certain  and  unpleasant  death.  "  If 
I  hear  that  you  have  told  this  thing  to  any  one  when 
I  come  back  next  winter,  five,  ten,  twenty,  fifty  years 
from  now,  I  will  kill  you,"  Antoine  had  warned,  and  it 
appeared  that  Paul  had  been  greatly  agitated.  But 
some  one  else  might  tell,  he  had  protested.  To  which 
Antoine  had  made  reply  that  Paul  by  his  own  previous 
statement  to  Anne  had  been  the  only  observer.  An- 
toine's  finely  cut,  satanic  lips  curled  in  a  smile  which 
had  nothing  in  the  least  reassuring.  "  I  told  him  that 
I  am  a  Metis,  that  I  should  like  to  kill  some  one  in 
a  way  that  would  give  pain."  And  his  wolf  eyes 


ANNE  CAEMEL  289 

looked  it.  "  It  was  the  only  way,"  lie  informed  her, 
with  superior  wisdom  and  complete  confidence  in  his 
own  actions  and  judgment.  "It  would  have  done  no 
good  to  marry  him.  Afterward  —  or  sometime  when 
he  was  drunk,  he  would  have  told.  I  know  him,"  and 
he  jerked  his  head  assertively.  "But  now  —  he  will 
hold  his  tongue,  because  it  will  be  stiff  with  fear." 
And  he  smiled  again,  with  more  keen  enjoyment  than 
he  wanted  to  show. 

Anne  suspected  that  Paul  had  had  a  bad  time.  But 
Antoine  had  nothing  more  to  say  about  it.  "  You 
won't  marry  him  ?  "  he  asked.  She  was  only  too 
glad  to  be  able  to  tell  him  that  she  would  not.  He 
nodded  approval  and  satisfaction,  and,  turning  on  his 
run-down  heel,  left  her. 

It  was  a  loophole  of  escape  she  had  not  counted 
upon.  Only,  as  in  certain  inquisitorial  dungeons,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  permitted  to  find 
her  way  out  of  one,  merely  to  discover  herself  in 
another. 

She  was  the  child  of  a  country  of  which  it  had  been 
said,  after  the  edict  of  Richelieu,  that  it  contained 
no  heretics,  the  daughter  of  the  church  through  un 
known  numbers  of  generations.  Its  teachings  had 
grown  into  that  second  nature  which  so  often  becomes 
the  more  influential  of  thoughts  and  of  actions  which 
have  time  for  consideration.  It  was  bred  in  her  from 
remote  centuries  —  the  horror  of  forsworn  sacerdotal 


290  ANNE  CARMEL 

vows.  The  breaking  of  the  decalogue  could  hardly 
have  appeared  so  despicable ;  —  the  difference  in  the 
secular  world  between  a  departure  from  the  code  of 
honor  and  the  mere  committing  of  a  crime.  An  apos 
tate  priest  —  the  name  was  opprobrium,  an  abomination, 
the  thing  itself  an  outcast,  a  pariah  shunned  of  men. 
From  that  it  would  lie  with  her,  very  possibly,  to 
save  her  brother.  If  he  should  determine,  if  he  had 
already  determined,  to  forsake  the  priesthood  and 
marry,  she  would  have  only  to  go  to  him  and  offer 
the  sacrifice  of  her  own  love  for  that  of  his.  And 
he  would  give  it,  without  hesitation,  whatever  the 
cost  to  himself,  or  even  to  Cecily.  It  was  not  for 
the  mere  argument  and  effect  of  the  words  he 
had  held  against  her,  that  not  the  following  of  in 
clination  but  the  doing  of  duty  was  the  thing  which 
one  was  born  into  the  world  destined  to  have  for 
one's  portion,  that  in  the  choice  between  the  two  lay 
the  issue  of  life.  He  would  see  it  as  his  duty  to 
save  her,  and  he  would  accept  it.  She  would  have 
only  to  say  to  him  that  she  would  never  see  Harnett 
again  if  he  himself  would  promise  the  same  as  to 
Cecily  Thome.  And  if  the  need  came,  she  must 
do  it. 

A  quavering  and  distressed  voice  close  to  her 
inquired,  "What  is  the  matter,  Ma'amselle?"  It  was 
Etienne.  He  had  come  around  from  the  other  side 
of  the  house  and  had  stopped  a  few  feet  away.  He 


ANNE  CAKMEL  291 

was  not  so  young  but  that  he  had  already  seen  death, 
and  he  had  thought  that  Anne  might  perhaps  be 
dying.  Her  eyes  were  shut,  and  her  face  was  so 
white  and  drawn.  When  he  found  that  she  was  not, 
he  began,  in  his  relief,  to  snivel,  and  Yvonne,  coming 
up,  expressed  her  opinion  of  boys  who  cried,  quoting 
to  back  it,  moreover,  that  of  Monsieur  Carmel  —  a  habit 
she  had  acquired  since  her  residence  in  the  presbytere, 
and  which  lent  weight  to  her  views. 

Etienne  resented  it,  and  there  was  very  nearly  the 
first  pitched  battle.  Anne  came  in  between  them  and 
brought  about  peace,  of  a  sort.  Etienne,  however, 
betook  himself  and  his  injured  dignity  away.  He 
would  play  with  boys,  and  Yvonne  called  after  him 
that  she  didn't  care  and  preferred  being  alone,  in  any 
case. 

It  was  the  time-old  feminine  defiance,  disproved,  as 
usual,  by  a  prompt  loss  of  interest  in  things  in  general, 
after  a  very  short  period  of  too  ostentatious  enjoyment. 
Anne  saw  the  accentuated  attempts  at  having  a  good 
time  gradually  abandoned  for  a  picture  book,  and  finally 
for  dreary  meditation.  Yet  Etienne  was  playing  in 
front  of  the  church,  shouting.  His  good  time  was  not 
feigned  at  all.  It  was  a  hard  world  for  women — little 
and  big. 

But  the  commonplace  and  trivial,  so  deadly  to  high 
emotion,  had  intervened  for  Anne.  The  impulse  to 
tragedy  and  self-sacrifice  was  lessening.  She  began  to 


292  ANNE  CAKMEL 

come  out  from  the  influence  of  inherited  prejudices.  A 
prejudice  of  any  sort  was  not  apt  to  govern  her  for 
long.  The  elemental  was  too  strong  in  her.  Save  in 
the  doctrines  of  the  faith,  which  she  accepted  with  that 
docility  which  has  called  upon  French  Canada  the 
praise  of  popes,  she  insisted  upon  reasoning  all  things 
from  a  logical  premise. 

The  influence  of  the  convent  school  and  of  her  first 
confessor  had  both  been  inadequate  to  affect  her  in  this. 
For  herself  —  approved  by  her  brother  and  discouraged 
by  her  father  and  mother — she  had  worked  it  out  to  her 
own  satisfaction  and  definitely  decided,  while  she  was 
still  almost  a  child,  that  pilgrimages  to  Oka  and  Ste. 
Anne,  to  shrines  in  general,  or  reciting  prayers  in  front 
of  tiny  bronze  St.  Peter's  could  not  obtain  indulgences ; 
that  absolution  was,  moreover,  to  be  bought,  not  by 
confession  and  penances,  but  only  by  that  reality  of 
repentance  which  was  so  little  dwelt  upon.  None  of 
all  this  had  constituted  heresy  in  itself,  but  was  dis 
countenanced  by  her  parents,  by  the  nuns,  and  the 
priests,  as  a  tendency  thereto,  possibly  inherited  from  a 
recalcitrant  grandfather,  and  desirable  to  check.  Their 
combined  forces,  however,  had  failed  to  check  it.  Jean 
had  given  his  sanction  to  her  scheme  of  morality  and 
helped  her  to  it,  and  Jean  was  the  ultimate  court  of 
appeal.  For  them  a  sin  lay  in  the  uncurbed  inclination 
fully  as  much  as  in  the  act ;  a  wrong  which  one  did  not 
commit  only  because  of  the  prevention  of  exterior  cir- 


ANNE  CABMBL  293 

cumstances  was  none  the  less  committed  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  and  laid  to  one's  count.  As  a  man 
thought  in  his  heart,  so  he  was. 

And  what,  therefore,  would  it  avail  her  brother's 
salvation  that  she  should  coerce  him  into  outward  com 
pliance  with  the  law  if  in  his  heart  he  should  be  long 
ing  to  break  it  ?  The  saving  of  the  soul  was  the  affair 
of  the  soul's  self.  There  could  be  no  other  way.  As 
for  the  saving  of  a  good  name  —  that  was  the  least  of 
all  arguments.  In  her  own  case  it  had  not  weighed  as 
a  feather.  Even  in  her  brother's,  it  did  not,  enough  to 
determine  her  course. 

What  was  to  be  avoided  was  that  failing  most  abhor 
rent  of  all  to  her, —  hypocrisy.  A  renegade  priest  was 
at  least  less  sunk  in  disgrace  and  infamy  than  one  who 
would  be  mocking  the  service  of  God  with  devout  hand 
and  lip,  the  while  rebelling  within  himself.  The  dete 
rioration  of  a  finer  nature  which  Jean  had  feared  for  her 
as  a  fallen  woman,  she  feared  for  him  as  a  priest  held  to 
his  work  by  nothing  more  than  constraint  of  circum 
stances,  forced  into  outward  acceptance  of  his  lot. 
There  could  in  no  wise  be  honesty  in  that.  There 
could  be  in  openly  forsworn  vows. 

In  the  end  she  reversed  her  first  decision.  If  her 
brother  should  determine  to  deny  his  vows  and  marry, 
she  would  try  to  prevent  it  only  in  so  far  as  one  could 
be  justified  in  seeking  to  change  the  course  of  another's 
life  —  by  influence.  But  the  pettiness  of  offering  him 


294  ANNE  CAEMEL 

her  own  social  salvation  in  exchange  for  his,  she  would 
not  stoop  to  that. 

Cecily  Thome  would  be  leaving  in  another  day. 
The  interval  would  bring  forth  results  one  way  or 
another.  It  was  precisely  that  she  might  wait  for 
those,  and  act  accordingly,  that  she  had  made  Paul 
Tetrault  concede  her  a  week's  secrecy  as  to  the  renewed 
promise  of  marriage  —  the  compelled  promise  from 
which  she  did  not  at  all  hesitate  to  accept  Antoine's 
help  at  escape. 

There'se  Labiscaye  was  coming  across  the  street  tow 
ard  the  presbytere.  Anne  laid  down  her  work  and 
went  to  meet  her  at  the  gate. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

JEAN  CAEMEL  had  drawn  his  one  chair  out  to  the 
middle  of  his  room,  and  he  sat  there,  his  arms  folded 
and  his  square  chin  sunk  down,  looking  out  to  where 
the  pink  and  white  and  crimson  poppies  in  the  bed 
beneath  Anne's  window  were  blurring  with  color  in 
the  sun. 

For  the  most  part  moral  development  goes  on  un 
consciously,  gradually,  little  by  little,  and  unfelt.  But 
in  almost  every  life  worthy  the  name  there  comes  the 
period  when  all  the  influences  which  have  been  at  work 
from  the  beginning,  heeded  or  unrealized,  converge  and 
focus  in  two  distinct  forces  contending  against  each 
other,  as  Jacob  and  Esau  within  Rebecca.  And  even  as 
Esau  was  a  man  of  nature  and  Jacob  a  plain  man  dwell 
ing  in  tents,  so  are  the  striving  elements  that  of  the 
untrained,  simple,  primitive  creature,  the  elder,  and 
that  of  he  who  inclines  to  the  quiet  ways  which  make 
for  peace  and  order  and  the  building  up  of  peoples  and 
societies  —  later  born. 

Yet  of  Jacob  and  Esau  it  was  foretold  (symbol  of  the 
history  of  civilization)  that  the  first  must  serve  the 

295 


296  ANNE  CAKMEL 

second  in  the  end.  And  of  the  individual  man  it  is 
not  predestined.  The  outcome  must  be  determined  in 
each  case — the  future  mastery.  It  was  the  crisis  which 
Jean  Carmel  was  facing. 

In  his  adoption  of  the  priesthood  there  had  been  no 
question  of  vocation  at  any  time,  hardly  even  of  his 
own  volition.  Before  he  had  come  into  the  world,  his 
mother  had  prayed  with  all  the  fervency  of  a  zealot's 
nature  that  her  firstborn  might  be  a  son  who  could  be 
devoted  to  the  service  of  God  in  the  church,  and  atone, 
in  the  third  generation,  for  the  sin  of  the  grandfather 
who  was,  even  then,  in  an  heretical  land,  forsaking  the 
faith,  and  rousing  thereby  the  bitter  anger,  condem 
nation,  and  disapproval  of  his  daughter.  The  desire 
had  had  no  effect  upon  the  bent  of  the  child ;  he  had  de 
veloped  no  religious  zeal.  But  from  the  time  he  could 
grasp  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  future  "  it  had  been 
given  him  to  understand  that  his  own  was  to  be  the 
priesthood.  All  plans,  all  arrangements,  and  all  his 
education  had  been  with  that  end  in  view.  And  he 
himself  had  acquiesced,  if  with  no  especial  enthusiasm, 
at  least,  without  objection.  He  had  recognized  that 
a  man  had  necessarily  an  occupation.  That  of  a  priest 
was  distinctly  a  creditable  one  in  itself,  presupposing  in 
his  country  at  any  rate,  a  respectable  family  in  good 
standing.  And  he  had  had  none  of  his  grandfather's 
scepticism,  had  never  been  exposed  to  influences  which 
might  have  caused  it. 


ANNE  CARMEL  297 

He  had  accepted  his  work  in  life  and,  in  due  time, 
had  been  ordained.  The  vow  of  celibacy  had  meant 
almost  nothing  to  him  at  the  time,  had  been  perhaps 
the  one  of  all  to  which  he  had  given  least  thought. 
Marriage  had  never  entered  into  any  of  his  calcula 
tions,  nor  love  into  his  experience.  Up  to  then  his 
outlook  upon  life  and  history  had  been  restricted. 
It  was  only  after  he  had  become  a  priest,  and  to  an 
extent  his  own  master,  that  his  eyes  had  been  opened 
to  his  surroundings  and  to  much  of  the  stoiy  of  the 
past.  Then  he  had  had  his  first  doubts  of  the  desir 
ability  of  that  celibate  priesthood,  finally  insisted  upon 
by  a  master-mind  in  statecraft,  not  for  the  greater 
glory  of  God,  so  much  as  for  the  greater  power  of 
a  hierarchy  bound  to  no  family  or  country  owing 
but  one  allegiance.  If  a  tree  was  to  be  judged  by 
its  fruit,  the  fruit  of  celibacy  had  been  too  often 
such  as  the  church  might  well  dislike  to  name.  He 
could  not  but  know  it,  and  knowing  it  could  not  but 
reach  his  own  conclusion  —  one  unaffected  then  by 
any  personal  inclinations. 

Even  the  little  maiden  of  Picardy  had  not  caused 
him  to  wish  seriously  for  freedom  and  much  less  to 
contemplate  obtaining  it.  But  now  he  asked  himself 
by  what  right  he  or  any  man  dared  to  renounce  before 
hand  something  of  which  he  had  no  knowledge,  to 
try  to  determine  for  himself  his  own  future  contrary 
to  the  plans  of  Heaven  for  the  race,  to  attempt  the 


298  ANNE  CAllMEL 

forestalling  of  Destiny  and  checking  the  will  of  his 
Creator.  It  was  not  virtuous;  it  was  impious.  The 
touch  of  a  woman's  hand  had  been  the  call  to  every 
impulse  of  youth  and  life  and  temperament  which 
were  strong  in  him.  And  he  had  answered  it.  Was 
he  not  as  other  men  who  did  their  part  in  the  up 
building,  the  perpetuating  of  peoples?  —  that  duty 
impressed  by  Holy  Writ  to  the  fostering  of  the  love 
of  nation  only  less  sacred  than  the  love  of  God,  a 
duty  never  denied  or  depreciated  until  after  the 
Master  had  returned  whence  he  had  come  and  left 
half-comprehending  disciples  and  converts  to  misin 
terpret  too  many  of  his  words,  twisting  them,  adapt 
ing  them,  to  their  own  tastes  or  preconceptions.  And 
had  not  St.  Paul  himself  —  whose  aceticism  was 
late  born  as  his  faith  —  been  in  his  younger  manhood 
a  member  of  the  Sanhedrin  and  so  the  husband  of  a 
wife?  Had  not  that  which  he  had  written  to  the 
Corinthians  overreached  unjustifiably  through  mis 
guided  zeal  any  possible  deduction  to  be  drawn  or 
wrenched  from  the  guarded,  matter-of-fact  answer  of 
Christ  to  the  questioning  Pharisees? 

A  man's  right  to  love  some  one  woman  and  have  her 
for  himself  before  heaven  and  earth  was  older  than 
Christianity,  older  than  the  church,  older  than  the 
third  century  council,  which  first  had  proposed  the 
terms  of  celibacy  —  as  old  as  creation.  It  was  a  right 
furthered  by  lawgivers  and  philosophers  of  wisdom 


ANNE  CARMEL  299 

from  time  beyond  reckoning.  Nature  herself,  which 
gave  the  lesser  chance  of  life  to  the  unmarried,  spoke 
for  it  unequivocally. 

And  what  though  he  had,  in  his  ignorance,  bound 
himself  with  an  oath?  Was  a  man  to  be  held  by 
moral  law  to  a  pledge  of  wrong-doing,  when  even  by 
the  law  of  man  he  might  not  be  ?  Such  an  oath, 
ought  it  not  properly  to  be  as  abhorrent  to  all  normal 
men  as  those  unnatural  ones  of  Abraham,  Agamemnon, 
or  Jeptha,  to  which  it  was  near  akin,  after  all?  Was 
one  bound  in  honor  to  adhere  to  it?  Truly,  it  was 
written  that  "  if  a  man  vow  a  vow  unto  the  Lord,  he 
shall  not  break  his  bond"  —  and  much  more  of  the  sort. 
Yet,  was  an  evil  vow  to  be  counted  as  made  to  the 
Lord  ?  "  That  which  is  gone  out  of  thy  lips  thou 
shalt  keep  and  perform,"  one  had  commanded.  Yet 
a  Greater  had  said,  "Swear  not  at  all,  because  thou 
canst  not  make  one  hair  white  or  black."  And  that 
One  had  come  down  to  the  foundation  of  this  as  of 
all  things.  The  fundamental  wrong  lay  in  swearing 
at  all.  Yet  to  forswear  — !  He  was  no  sophist.  Did 
two  wrongs  make  one  right? 

Anne  spoke  to  him  through  the  locked  door.     He 

•  stood  up  mechanically  and  went  to  open  it.     The're'se 

Labiscaye  was  asking  for  him.     And  it  was  a  rule  of 

the  presbyte~re  that  none  was  ever  to  be  denied  access 

to  him  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night. 

The  part  of  priest  did  not  come  easy  to  him  in  the 


300  ANNE  CARMEL 

very  moment  of  revolt,  of  contemplating  abjuring  it 
for  good  and  all.  Nevertheless,  he  went  out  at  once. 

There'se's  troubles  had  been  more  than  usually  bitter 
of  late.  The  mother,  for  whom  she  had  sacrificed  her 
own  life  happiness,  had  been  querulous  and  dissatisfied, 
the  sister  contemptuous  in  her  rare  letters,  which,  to 
make  the  humiliation  greater,  had  to  be  taken  to 
strangers  for  reading,  and  the  work  of  the  little  farm 
patch  very  hard. 

"  Look,  mon  pere,  if  you  do  not  believe  that  I  am 
tired."  She  bent  awkwardly  forward  from  her  chair 
and  stretched  out  to  him  two  blunted,  knuckled  hands, 
cracked  and  reddened  and  sore.  They  shook  like  an 
old  woman's.  She  jerked  them  back  suddenly  and 
dropped  her  face  on  them,  doubling  over  and  huddling 
down,  her  forehead  upon  her  knees.  She  was  not  cry 
ing  or  sobbing,  not  making  a  sound.  Jean  Carmel  sat 
looking  at  her  as  the  embodiment  of  his  own  future, 
sent  to  typify  what  he  would  be  if  he  should  do  as 
she  had  done  and  turn  away  from  the  love  that  offered. 
He  took  his  cljair  nearer  to  hers  and  laid  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  bent  and  thin  and  angular.  Just  then 
he  did  not  attempt  to  speak  to  her.  After  a  while  she 
lifted  her  head  and  leaned  back  in  the  chair,  her  eyes 
on  the  floor,  sullen. 

"I  am  only  thirty  years  old,"  she  said  resentfully, 
"and  half  of  my  life  is  still  to  come  —  this  life." 

He  felt  the  impotence  of  the  conventional  religious 


ANNE   CARMEL  301 

consolations  she  would  be  able  to  understand.  To 
some  ascetic,  visionary  half-saint  they  might  have 
brought  hope  and  peace.  They  were  meant  for  such, 
conceived  by  such.  But  to  a  dulled  woman  of  hardly 
more  sensibility  than  some  of  those  beasts  of  burden 
like  which  she  toiled,  they  had  no  real  meaning.  He 
recognized  helplessly,  as  he  had  done  before  now,  the 
difficulty  of  reaching  those  who  are  in  great  suffering 
of  mind  and  soul,  and  whose  religion  is  founded  on 
dogma  rather  than  on  the  spirit  of  unformulated  Chris 
tianity. 

Religion  to  TheVese  Labiscaye  was  the  dogma  of 
the  church  and  its  symbols,  and  there  is  a  depth  of 
sheer  human  wretchedness  which  such  cannot  reach. 
The  all-penetrating  comfort  of  the  simple  faith  of  the 
two  great  commandments  of  love  might  have  touched 
her.  But  that  faith  was  something  which  circum 
stances  and  Monsieur  Biret  had  not  prepared  her  to 
understand.  The  Good  God  Himself  was  to  her  the 
benign  and  bearded  form  in  man's  likeness  which  she 
had  seen  in  sacred  prints.  She  was  willing  to  accept 
the  faith  that  He  would  reward  her  with  heaven  if  she 
were  to  do  well,  confess  at  intervals,  and  receive  the 
Blessed  Sacrament;  that  He  would  punish  her  if  she 
should  sin,  and  forgive  her  in  time,  appeased  with 
penances,  if  she  were  repentant.  Her  God  had  the 
advantage  over  the  heathen's  only  in  that  he  inclined 
to  virtue.  He  was  as  real,  as  corporeal,  to  her  as  had 


302 

been  to  Marie  de  1'Incarnation  three  centuries  before, 
when  faith  was  alive,  the  Saviour  to  Whom  she  addressed 
unlovely  rhapsodies.  And  He  served  her  usual  needs. 
But  He  was  not  the  God  to  comfort  the  rebellion  of 
dead  despair.  And  Jean  Carmel  did  not  invoke  Him. 

He  talked  to  her,  not  in  his  capacity  of  a  priest,  but 
as  a  man  who  has  himself  seen  life  stretching  before 
him  at  times  as  a  dreary  outlook,  yet  has  kept  on  his 
way,  found  his  reward  in  usefulness,  and  discovered 
that,  seen  closer,  from  day  to  day  there  was  much  of 
interest  and  of  good. 

She  sat  at  first,  without  looking  at  him,  twisting  the 
end  of  a  scarf  she  wore  around  her  neck.  Then  at 
length  she  broke  down  and  cried,  and  the  sullenness 
and  rebellion  passed.  She  stayed  a  long  time,  and 
went  away  more  contented. 

He  shut  himself  into  his  own  room  again,  and,  return 
ing  to  his  place  on  the  stiff  willow  chair  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  his  arms  on  his  chest  and  his  chin  sunk 
again,  took  up  the  argument  with  himself  where  he  had 
left  it.  Like  the  story  of  the  arctic  traveller  who  was 
himself  revived  and  warmed  in  the  effort  of  reviving  a 
companion,  he  had  been  helped  in  helping  The'rese. 
He  too  was  less  rebellious  against  existing  conditions. 
It  was  largely  he  himself  who  had  made  them ;  he  was 
bound  to  admit  that.  He  had  been  a  man,  and  one  of  any 
thing  but  facile  disposition,  when  he  had  been  ordained. 
No  one  had  forced  him,  reluctant,  to  it.  By  his  own 


ANNE  CARMEL  303 

act,  his  own  vows,  freely  taken,  he  was  become,  more 
than  the  majority  of  men,  an  example.  As  he  should 
do,  many  others  would  do.  In  proportion  to  his  promi 
nence  was  his  responsibility.  Far  and  near,  now  and 
in  the  future,  he  could  in  no  wise  see  all  the  wrongs  to 
which  his  own  breaking  of  faith  with  those  who  be 
lieved  in  him  and  who  trusted  him  might  lead.  He 
knew  that,  more  than  many  priests,  he  was  looked  up 
to  in  his  parish.  And  the  harm  which  is  done  by  the 
loss  of  confidence  in  one  who  has  been  entirely  believed 
in  may  well  be  incalculable.  With  all  but  the  best  and 
strongest  characters  the  distrust  will  spread  out  beyond 
the  one  to  the  many,  causing  doubt  of  all  mankind,  in 
cluding  inevitably,  in  the  end,  the  Creator  of  so  much 
imperfection.  He  would  have  much  to  answer  for  who 
should  betray  the  trust  of  even  the  least  of  these.  The 
near  consequences  he  could,  in  a  measure,  foresee,  now. 
The  remote  he  could  never  know,  but  they  would  be 
none  the  less  surely  his  to  account  for. 

There  was  a  duty  he  owed  to  the  woman  beyond 
question,  and  it  was  the  one  nearest  to  his  heart.  Yet 
it  was  only  one.  And  the  conception  of  obligation  had 
no  right  to  be  narrow.  The  duty  at  hand  was  by  no 
means  always  the  one  to  be  done.  It  was  frequently  — 
short-visioned  moralists  to  the  contrary  notwithstand 
ing —  the  one  to  be  passed  over  for  a  larger,  as  the  his 
tory  of  nearly  all  reforms  and  charities  could  show. 
The  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number  was  that 


304  ANNE  CARMEL 

upon  which  the  decision  of  his  action  could  alone  be 
based. 

Then  he  felt  in  memory  the  clinging  touch  of  the 
woman's  hand  over  which  his  own  had  closed.  He  rose 
sharply  and  crossed  the  little  bare  room.  And,  coming 
to  a  stop  by  the  wall,  he  caught  sight  of  the  woman  her 
self.  She  was  at  the  farther  window  of  the  wing  which 
formed  her  room,  the  afternoon  light  coming  in  behind 
her.  She  was  standing,  and  the  hand  which  rested 
on  the  deep  masonry  sill  held  a  wilted  red  rose  and 
what  seemed  to  be  a  dried,  pressed  spray  of  some  white 
flower.  He  recalled  the  morning  in  the  month  of  May, 
when  the  pastures  had  rippled  in  gold  and  green,  when 
the  maples  had  been  fringing  out  in  yellow  and  russet, 
when  the  farmers  had  been  ploughing  their  fields,  and 
a  group  of  children,  hanging  over  the  stone  fence,  had 
been  watching  one  of  them.  He  recalled  the  handful 
of  meadowsweet  one  of  them  had  shyly  offered  him, 
and  which  he  had  passed  on  to  Cecily.  The  duty 
toward  the  greatest  number,  what  was  that  to  him? 
Himself  and  the  woman  he  loved,  those  were  all  his 
world,  and  ought  rightly  to  be.  He  would  think  of 
himself  and  her  —  the  others  might  fight  their  souls' 
battles  for  themselves. 

Then  he  remembered  Anne  and  the  promise  he  had 
made  her  give  him,  that  she  would  come  back  to  him 
when  she  should  have  no  other  where  to  go.  Could 
she  and  would  she  come  to  a  house  which  held  his 


ANNE   CARMEL  305 

wife  and  children  —  the  woman  that  she  would  be  by 
then  ?  Would  he  himself  want  her  to  do  so  ? 

He  stood  where  he  was,  thinking  it  over  in  all  its 
aspects,  looking  at  it  from  every  side.  But  all  that 
showed  itself  to  him  unmistakably,  beyond  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt,  was  that,  if  his  sister  were  to  come  back  to 
him,  she  must  find  him  alone  —  as  he  had  taken  his  vow 
to  be,  and  must  remain.  And  at  least  one  reason  and 
excuse  for,  one  object  of  that  vow  was  apparent  to  him 
now.  In  the  doing  of  his  duty  it  left  a  man  with  no 
one  to  consider  save  himself. 

He  went  back  to  his  chair  once  more.  It  was  a  long 
while  before  he  moved.  When  he  did  the  face  that  he 
lifted  had  aged  by  years.  From  the  face  of  a  man  in 
the  full  of  youth,  which  it  had  been  before,  it  had  be 
come  that  of  a  man  past  the  best  of  his  life.  And  there 
came  back  to  him  Anne's  words,  spoken  in  the  dense 
forest  of  the  hill  crest,  in  the  blackness  of  the  gathering 
storm,  — 

"It  is  your  life  which  is  the  ruined  one  —  I  hope 
you  will  never  know  how  ruined." 

The  knowledge  had  come. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

SOME  one  went  by  in  the  street,  singing  cheerfully 
and  discordantly  to  the  night :  — 

Chante,  rossignol,  chante 
Toi  qui  as  le  cceur  gai. 
Tu  as  le  cceur  k  rire 
Moi  je  Tai-t'-k  pleurer. 

Jean  Carmel,  sitting  at  his  desk,  heard  it  through  the 
open  window,  and  it  was  entirely  applicable  to  his  own 
frame  of  mind,  if  not  —  judging  from  the  exuberant 
shouting  —  to  that  of  the  singer.  He  had  been  reread 
ing  a  letter  which  had  come  to  him  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  which  had  given  him  practically  the  assurance  that 
his  days  at  St.  Hilaire  were  reaching  their  end,  and  that 
his  work  would  be  thenceforth  in  Montreal.  There 
would  have  been  a  time  when  it  would  have  been  good 
news,  untempered  by  any  regrets,  beyond  a  slight  one  at 
leaving  the  parishioners  who  were  attached  to  him.  But 
now  it  had  come  too  late.  Two  years  ago  it  would  have 
saved  Anne.  And  two  years  ago  it  would  have  spared 
Cecily.  As  for  himself,  he  did  not  wish  to  have  been 
spared.  Two  years  ago  this  parish,  in  which  he  had 

306 


ANNE  CABMEL  307 

done  the  work  of  his  youth,  whose  church  and  presby- 
tere  he  had  built,  would  not  have  been  endeared  to  him 
by  the  grave  of  his  mother,  and  yet  more  by  the  recol 
lections  of  a  meadow  sloping  down  to  the  river  edge,  a 
field  waving  with  the  gold  and  white  of  great  daisies,  the 
path  to  the  Tetrault  farm,  the  garden  where  the  white 
lilacs  and  the  daffodils  had  blossomed  when  the  woman 
who  was  to  be  so  much  to  him  had  first  come  into  it. 

In  the  city  there  could  be  no  garden  of  his  own,  where 
he  could  grow  so  much  as  one  bed  of  the  fragile  single 
poppies.  At  least  none  of  those  should  be  left  to  his 
successor,  whoever  that  might  be.  Everything  else  he 
might  have,  to  plant  and  profit  by,  if  he  should  care  to 
work  over  them  —  as  the  chances  were  he  would  not. 
But  the  frail  flowers  of  sleep  which  had  come  from  her, 
those  should  be  torn  up  and  burned  —  threadlike  roots, 
brittle  stems,  and  petals  of  brilliant  gauze. 

Yet  it  was  not  probable  that  he  would  have  to  leave 
St.  Hilaire  unless  he  wished  to.  And  he  would  not 
wish  to  now.  It  would  be  better  that  he  should  stay 
on  in  the  presbytere  to  which  he  had  grown  accustomed, 
with  the  parishioners  who  knew  and  cared  for  him, 
becoming  old  among  them  and  their  children's  children 
in  the  seclusion  of  the  ancient  hills.  It  would  be  the 
best  place  for  Anne  to  find  him  when  she  should  stand 
in  need  of  him.  He  had  duly  considered  it  all  and  specu 
lated  upon  what  his  course  would  have  been  had  things 
been  as  they  were  not. 


308  ANNE  CAEMEL 

He  would  have  gone  with  Anne  to  the  city,  where  they 
would  have  been  at  once  among  many  friends.  Anne 
would  have  married.  That  would  have  been  little  short 
of  inevitable.  Her  beauty  and  her  own  temperament 
assured  it.  Precisely  because  her  love  for  this  ona 
man  was  of  the  character  he  could  not  but  know  it  to 
be,  it  would  not  absorb  her  whole  life  if  she  had  nothing 
more  actual  than  memory  to  feed  it  upon.  Only  with 
the  idealist  did  such  passions  exist.  And  Anne  was  in 
no  sense  an  idealist.  She  could  be  able  to,  she  would 
be  obliged  to,  love  again  with  almost  equal  self-abandon 
ment,  if  conditions  should  be  favorable. 

As  for  himself,  he  might,  in  course  of  time,  have 
hoped  to  rise  considerably  above  his  present  rank  in 
the  church,  and  importance  in  the  world.  He  believed 
his  talents  and  his  friends  to  be  such  as  to  assure  that. 
And  he  was  ambitious  at  bottom  —  intensely  so.  But 
as  matters  stood  he  must  perforce  put  aside  ambition. 
A  priest  could  not  advance  far  who  would  persist  in 
keeping  with  him  a  sister  who  would  be  a  woman  of 
tarnished  name.  Such  were  not  the  companions  of 
church  dignitaries. 

To  be  sure,  it  would  always  be  possible  to  provide  for 
her  away  from  himself.  But  it  was  not  in  that  manner 
and  spirit  he  contemplated  receiving  her  back.  So  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  she  should  be  to  him  at  any  time 
in  the  future,  under  any  and  all  conditions,  precisely  as 
she  was  now.  And  therefore  advancement  could  not 


ANNE  CARMBL  309 

well  be  for  him,  unless  perhaps  in  the  very  unlikely 
event  of  Anne's  deciding  at  the  last  moment  to  give 
Harnett  up  —  an  occurrence  not  to  be  looked  for  or 
counted  upon,  yet  one  which  would  have  made  all  and 
any  sacrifice  seem  to  him  amply  repaid. 

He  took  up  a  pencil  which  lay  on  the  desk  and 
began  marking  straight  lines  and  X's  and  scrolls  on 
the  back  of  the  envelope.  Somewhere  outside  a  gray 
owl  hooted  several  times.  He  turned  in  his  chair 
impatiently.  By  the  dim  light  he  could  just  see  the 
photograph  of  Cecily  upon  the  mantelpiece,  the  picture 
of  the  woman  of  another  world  than  this  of  the  forests 
and  fields  —  of  another  world  than  his,  and  destined  to 
remain  so  henceforth. 

He  had  told  her  so  that  evening  as  they  had  stood 
together  in  the  sorrel  and  tall  seeding  grass,  in  a  neg 
lected  corner  of  the  yard.  They  had  talked  for  a  long 
while,  until  many  stars  had  come  out  in  the  vault  of 
night  blue,  yet  a  little  pale  with  the  daylight  which  had 
not  quite  faded  away.  He  had  showed  her  everything 
in  the  past  and  present  exactly  as  it  was,  had  told  her 
of  his  mother's  forebodings  and  of  the  letter  which  he 
had  written  in  fulfilment  of  his  promise,  the  letter  which 
a  Fate,  bound  apparently  to  have  its  way,  had  made  use 
less.  She  had  taken  it  very  quietly  and  listlessly,  he 
could  not  help  thinking,  with  something  the  indiffer 
ence  of  one  who  from  the  first  expects  little  better  of 
life  and  so  does  not  rebel.  He  was  not  to  her  all  that 


310  ANNE  CARMEL 

she  was  to  him.  He  recognized  that.  And  he  had 
been  right  when  he  had  read  her  as  one  who  would  do 
well  enough  without  the  thing  she  desired,  partly  be 
cause  of  a  latent  philosophy  inherent  in  her,  partly 
because  she  had  seen  too  many  sides  of  life  to  find  any 
one  more  important  than  all  the  rest. 

But  for  him  it  had  been  the  black  hour  of  tragedy. 
The  night  about  him,  the  present,  and  the  future  were 
dark.  They  offered  him  nothing  beyond  the  hope  of 
being  yet  of  some  use  to  Anne  and  his  parishioners. 
"If  the  end  of  duty  can  ever  be  really  bitter,"  he 
remembered  that  he  had  once  said,  when  they  had  been 
speaking  of  Therese  Labiscaye.  He  was  learning  now 
if  it  could  be.  Yet  it  was  not  the  end,  after  all,  only 
the  beginning;  and  it  must  be  worse  before  time 
should  make  it  better. 

He  blew  out  the  candle  and  got  up,  groping  his  way 
to  the  fireplace  and  taking  down  the  picture  he  had 
been  looking  up  to,  but  could  not  see  now.  It  was  cool 
and  smooth  against  his  aching  forehead. 

After  a  few  minutes  the  door  from  the  hallway 
opened.  He  heard  it,  and  heard  some  one  coming 
across  the  room.  In  the  darkness  he  could  just  see 
the  white  blur  of  a  dress.  It  was  Cecily.  The  blood 
in  his  temples  beat  cold.  The  hands  that  held  the 
photograph  trembled  uncontrollably.  When  she  was 
within  only  a  few  feet  of  him  she  stopped,  hesitating 
for  her  next  step.  He  could  have  stretched  out  his 


ANNE  CARMEL  311 

arms  and  touched  her.  She  moved  on  cautiously. 
And  then  he  did  reach  toward  her.  But  she  was  too 
far  away.  It  was  the  symbol  of  his  life  that  the  arms 
closed  upon  only  the  shadows  and  the  air. 

He  choked  back  a  desperate  moan  of  disappointment. 
But  she  had  gone  on,  unconscious  even  that  he  was 
there. 

She  rapped  softly  at  Anne's  door,  opened  it,  was 
outlined  for  an  instant,  diaphanous  against  the  candle 
light,  then  the  door  closed  behind  her. 

He  stood  where  he  was.  The  beating  of  his  pulses 
died  down.  He  was  glad  that  she  had  been  the  one 
step  too  far  out  of  his  reach.  It  was  better  so.  The 
volume  of  the  story  of  their  two  lives  together  had  fin 
ished  out  there  in  the  garden  and  the  twilight.  A  day 
more,  and  it  would  be  closed,  clasped  shut  for  good 

and  all. 

**##*** 

Anne  was  kneeling  upright  by  the  open  window, 
and  the  yellow  glow  of  the  one  candle  burning  low 
in  the  socket  fell  on  the  white  of  her  nightgown. 
She  had  only  turned  her  head  at  first.  Then  she 
rose  slowly,  growing  cold  to  the  hands  which  hung 
before  her,  holding  the  rosary,  and  to  the  bare  feet 
on  the  boards.  Cecily  stopped  irresolute,  the  forward 
droop  of  her  head  against  which  Madame  Carmel  had 
animadverted  as  a  lure  to  strong  men,  a  little  more 
marked  than  ever. 


312  ANNE  CARMEL 

Anne,  nevertheless,  was  afraid  of  her.  She  was 
afraid  to  see  her  lips  move.  And  when  they  did  she 
could  not  hear  the  first  time.  Cecily  repeated  it. 
She  had  something  to  tell  her  —  should  she  stay  now 
or  come  back  ?  She  reached  out  her  hand  to  the 
latch  again.  But  Anne  was  one  to  cut  the  thread 
and  have  done  with  it  rather  than  wait  for  the  fall 
ing  of  the  sword.  She  checked  her.  Cecily  left  the 
door  and  glanced  over  to  the  little  bed  where  Yvonne 
lay  flat  on  her  back,  with  her  red  mouth  open  roundly, 
and  a  stiff  tail  of  hair  sticking  out  upon  either  side 
of  her  neck.  Anne  saw  the  glance.  Yvonne  would 
not  wake,  she  said ;  and  Cecily  crossed  to  the  window 
and  sat  on  the  wide  sill.  For  all  the  slight  hesitation 
and  diffidence  of  her  manner,  Anne  felt  the  determina 
tion  underlying  it,  the  self-possession.  And  it  had 
its  effect  upon  her.  She  herself  in  crucial  moments 
was  never  self-possessed  —  however  much  she  might 
be  so  of  the  spirits  of  resistance,  or  set  decision,  or 
dogged  purpose. 

They  were  looking  full  at  each  other  ;  and  Cecily 
Thorne  needed  no  telling  that  Anne  was  forewarned. 
Upon  the  whole  it  was  better  that  she  should  have 
been.  It  saved  explanations  which  would  have  been, 
of  necessity,  difficult.  In  the  hope  of  making  what 
little  reparation  might  lie  in  her  power  she  had  obliged 
herself  to  overcome  a  reticence  natural  and  culti 
vated  in  her,  a  reluctance  to  approaching  the  subject 


ANNE  CARMEL  313 

of  sentiment,  unless  it  were  of  the  most  impersonal 
sort.  To  deny  an  enthusiasm  or  affection,  in  action 
and  even  in  word,  was  her  manner  of  keeping  it  sacred 
and  intact  to  herself,  as  the  Oriental  keeps  hidden 
from  the  eyes  of  all  other  men,  and  ignores  in  speech 
the  woman  upon  whom  he  sets  most  value.  And  she 
shrivelled  and  recoiled  from  the  touch  of  sympathy. 
It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  do  what  she  meant  to.  Yet, 
if  Anne  Carmel's  gratitude  could  be  worked  upon  by 
putting  plainly  in  front  of  her  the  extent  to  which 
her  brother  was,  for  her  sake,  carrying  his  renuncia 
tion  of  happiness  and  ambition  and  hope,  there  might 
still  be  brought  some  good  out  of  so  much  evil. 
Anne  was  generous,  and  her  generosity  might  prove 
the  one  compulsion  which  would  make  her  give  over 
Harnett,  where  all  else  had  failed.  At  any  rate  —  it 
had  seemed  to  Cecily  worth  the  chance. 

"Has  some  one  told  you?"  she  asked  now  quietly. 
"Or  have  you  seen  for  yourself?"  Anne  delayed  her 
answer ;  then  she  gave  it.  She  had  not  seen  for  herself ; 
some  one  had  told  her.  Had  it  been  Jean,  Cecily  ques 
tioned  ?  The  use  of  the  name  slapped  Anne  in  the  face. 
She  bit  her  underlip.  It  had  not  been — her  brother. 
No.  Cecily  accepted  the  rebuke.  "  I  will  call  him  Mon 
sieur  Carmel,  if  you  prefer,"  she  said  with  much  un 
concern. 

Anne  had  somewhat  the  quickness  of  phrase  always 
resulting  from  habitual  speech  in  the  language  of 


314  ANNE  CARMEL 

courts.  "You  must  call  him,"  she  said,  "by  what 
ever  name  you  know  that  you  have  the  right  to  use." 
But  it  was  a  courtesy  a  trifle  too  elaborate  in  view  of 
the  other's  simplicity.  It  struck  false,  and  she  felt  it. 

If  it  had  not  been  Monsieur  Carmel  who  had  told 
her,  Cecily  asked,  would  she  let  her  know  who  it  was? 

Anne  thought  a  moment.  There  was,  perhaps,  no 
real  reason  why  she  should  not  have  told,  beyond  the 
force  of  the  habit  of  keeping  her  own  counsel.  She  shook 
her  head.  "  No,"  she  said ;  "  but  it  was  some  one  who 
passed  through  the  woods,  just  above  the  path."  Even 
by  the  wavering  candle-light  she  could  see  that  Cecily 
reddened  painfully  to  the  eyes. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  answered,  "  very  sorry ;  not  so 
much  for  myself  —  that  is  of  little  importance  one  way 
or  another  —  but  for  your  brother.  As  for  me,  these 
people  are  not  mine,  and  their  opinion  is  of  no  con 
sequence  to  me." 

It  would  not  go  any  farther,  Anne  told  her  with  cold 
reassurance.  It  seemed  to  her  rather  late  to  be  think 
ing  of  Jean.  The  time  to  have  done  that  would  have 
been  before  returning  to  St.  Hilaire ;  and  she  suggested 
as  much  now. 

Cecily  showed  no  resentment.  It  was  not  to  fall 
into  recriminations  that  she  had  forced  herself  to 
go  through  with  this  distasteful  episode.  "I  real 
ize  that,"  she  answered  in  the  low  voice,  leaning  her 
head  back  against  the  masonry.  "And  I  wish  now 


ANNE  CARMEL  315 

that  I  had  not  come  back.  But  whatever  else  my 
faults  may  have  been,  deliberate  intention  to  do  wrong 
was  not  one  of  them."  She  leaned  toward  her  earnestly. 
"I  want  you  to  believe  this  much,  Anne,"  she  urged, 
impressing  it :  "  that  until  to-day  I  thought  in  all 
sincerity  that  the  only  woman  who  was  more  to  your 
brother  than  a  casual,  passing  interest  was  —  yourself." 

Anne  did  not  answer.  Her  loose  hair  was  over  her 
shoulders,  hanging  almost  to  her  knees  in  waves  of 
shadowy  brown.  She  flung  it  back  with  her  hands  and 
a  throw  of  the  head.  Cecily  looked  away  from  her  to 
where  the  trunk  and  thickly  leaved  branches  of  a  tree 
a  few  feet  away  showed  vague  in  the  dull  night.  It  was 
raining,  a  fine  drifting  mist  which  made  no  sound  except 
a  regular  dripping  from  the  eaves.  Presently  she  looked 
back  at  Anne.  "You  remember  Madame  Tetrault's 
loud  comment  by  the  church  door,  before  vespers  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Anne. 

"And  you  remember  that  when  I  was  here  a  year 
ago  you  told  me  a  good  deal  about  yourself  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  again,  with  a  questioning  inflection. 
"It  is  inevitable  that  we  strangers  should  hear  some  of 
the  gossip  of  the  village;  you  realize  that?  And  it  is 
equally  inevitable  that  I  should  have  pieced  together 
all  my  scraps  of  information  and  report,  and,  with  a 
very  little  filling  in  on  my  own  part,  have  concluded 
that  you  had  gone  back  to  your  first  intention,  that  you 
intend  again  —  to  leave  St.  Hilaire  ?  " 


316  ANNE  CARMEL 

"  If  there  had  been  any  reason  for  telling  you,  I 
should  have  done  so  myself,"  Anne  said  in  defensive 
challenge  of  any  possible  imputation  of  shamed  secrecy. 

"  Yes,"  Cecily  accepted  it ;  "  but  there  was  no  reason 
why  you  should  have  told  me  anything  whatever.  All  I 
want  you  to  see,"  she  said,  speaking  distinctly,  "  is  this 
—  that  your  brother  himself  has  told  me  nothing  con 
cerning  you  which  I  did  not  already  know,  and  that  not 
until  I  showed  him  I  knew  did  he  speak  unreservedly." 
She  stopped  and  sat  looking  down  at  the  floor,  choosing 
the  words.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Anne's  deliber 
ately.  "  And  I  knew  then  that  I  had  been  right  from 
the  first,  after  all.  There  is  no  woman  he  has  ever 
placed  before  you  —  and  there  is  not  now.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  you,  I  believe  that  his  vows  and  what  he 
sees  as  his  duties  would  not  have  won  in  the  end.  If 
it  had  not  been  to  keep  a  home  ready  for  you  in  the 
future,  he  would  have  given  up  all  the  rest  for  me." 

Anne  had  the  way  of  remaining  for  long  stretches  in 
one  position  without  moving,  a  habit  like  that  of  con 
tinued  silence  which  can  give  a  strong  negative  force 
of  its  own  and  which  can  make  final  movement  of  tell 
ing  effect.  She  had  not  changed  from  where  she  had 
stood  at  the  first  upon  rising  from  her  knees  at  the 
opening  of  the  door.  Now  she  came  a  sudden  step 
forward.  "  Then — "  she  began.  Her  lips  were  apart, 
she  was  holding  her  breath,  a  white  figure  of  painful 
eagerness  and  keen  anxiety. 


"  'He  has  given   up   love  for  your  sake,'  Cecily  finished,   'and  now 
he  intends  to  forego  his  ambition  and  his  future.'  " 


ANNE  CAKMEL  317 

"After  to-morrow,"  Cecily  answered,  "  he  will  never 
see  me  again." 

For  some  little  space  neither  of  them  spoke.  Then 
Cecily  followed  up  the  advantage  she  knew  she  had 
gained.  "  There  was  a  letter  which  came  to  him  this 
afternoon,"  she  said.  "  Have  you  seen  it  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Anne,  and  showed  by  the  look  that 
crossed  her  face  the  inevitable  jealousy  of  one 
from  whom  the  confidence  she  has  always  been  ac 
customed  to  monopolizing  has  been  taken  to  be  given 
another. 

Cecily  saw  it.  And  it  was  by  no  means  annoyance 
against  Jean  Carmel  she  wished  to  rouse  in  Anne.  "No," 
she  said,  considering.  "  I  should  suppose  not.  He  is 
hardly  the  man  to  let  his  sacrifices  be  known  to  the 
one  for  whom  they  are  made. "  Anne  waited,  not  ques 
tioning,  but  expectant  and  clearly  impatient.  Cecily 
told  her  of  the  contents  of  the  letter.  "  He  has  given 
up  love  for  your  sake,"  she  finished  the  recital  "and 
now  he  intends  to  forego  his  ambition  and  his  future." 

She  could  see  Anne  shiver.  The  air  that  came 
through  the  window  was  damp  and  cool.  It  caught 
up  long  tendrils  of  Anne's  hair  and  blew  them  against 
Cecily's  face.  A  bird  disturbed  in  the  tree  outside 
fluttered  and  chirped  and  was  still  again. 

The  candle  had  been  guttering  down  in  the  stick. 
It  flared  up  redly  and  went  out.  Yvonne  sighed  and 
moaned,  turning  over  in  her  bed. 


318  ANNE  CARMEL 

Cecily  rose,  and  they  faced  each  other  in  the  dark 
ness.  Then  she  felt  for  the  two  firm,  long  hands,  lifted 
them,  and  pressed  the  palms  against  her  cheeks. 

She  dropped  them  and  went  noiselessly  out  of  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ANNE  stopped  at  the  top  of  a  divide  she  had  just 
climbed.  She  glanced  behind  her  in  the  direction  of  St. 
Hilaire.  It  was  already  eight  or  nine  miles  away,  and 
not  even  the  spire  of  the  church  was  to  be  seen.  She 
had  left  there  at  seven  o'clock,  telling  Ame'lie  that  she 
would  be  absent  all  day,  which  had  had  the  effect  of 
making  the  good  woman  exceedingly  anxious. 

Jean  Carmel  had  not  been  at  the  presbytere.  On 
Monday  he  had  gone  to  one  of  the  other  parishes  of 
the  diocese,  some  distance  away,  taking  part  in  the 
yearly  retreat  of  priests  and  profiting  by  the  sermons 
of  an  eloquent  Franciscan.  It  was  Saturday  now. 
The  exercises  would  be  over  in  the  morning,  and  by 
night  he  would  be  at  home  again.  More  than  a 
week  had  passed  since  he  and  she  had  stood  together 
in  the  street,  watching  three  people  going  away  along 
the  road,  —  Cecily  and  the  two  Thornes. 

Just  as  Cecily  had  come  to  the  bend,  which  would 
take  them  out  of  sight,  she  had  dropped  behind  a  few 
steps  and  had  looked  back.  Then  she  had  rejoined 
the  others,  and  Jean  Carmel  had  seen  her  for  the 
last  time.  Yvonne  had  been  watching,  too.  He  had 

319 


320  ANNE  CARMEL 

caught  her,  flung  her  upon  his  shoulder,  and,  turning 
his  face  until  it  had  been  hidden  against  the  soft, 
childish  body,  he  had  gone  into  the  house  quickly. 
But  Anne  had  seen  the  face. 

#####** 

It  had  decided  her.  And  now  she  was  carrying 
out  the  decision. 

St.  Hilaire  was  well  behind  her,  and  Les  Trembles 
not  three  miles  ahead.  A  mountain  hawk  was  cir 
cling  widely  in  the  blue  of  the  sky  and  seemed  to  be 
directly  above  it.  She  could  see  the  white  houses 
and  the  church  and  even  the  straight  lines  of  the 
Lombardy  poplars  which  had  been  planted  in  long, 
even  rows  by  some  seigneur  and  his  censitaires  in 
memory  of  France.  The  sun  went  behind  a  high 
cloud,  then  shone  out  again,  bringing  forth  a  rainbow 
—  that  token  of  the  covenant  between  heaven  and 
earth  which  the  savages  of  these  woods  and  mountains 
had  once  named  strings  of  the  sun.  It  touched  the 
wheat  in  a  far-off  field  to  a  broad  band  of  chrome 
yellow  and  the  oats  to  frosted,  rippling  green. 

Anne  went  aside  from  the  road  a  little  way  and 
sat  herself  on  a  big  slate  boulder.  A  wild  rosebush, 
pink  with  bloom,  was  growing  close  to  her.  Without 
in  the  least  knowing  that  she  did  it,  she  reached  out, 
carefully  broke  off  a  rose  with  no  stem,  and  pulled 
the  petals  from  it,  letting  them  drift  down  to  the  ground. 
She  did  it  with  another  and  another. 


ANNE  CARMEL  321 

Over  at  Les  Trembles  Harnett  would  be  waiting. 
She  had  written  him  to  meet  her,  not  in  the  village, 
where  she  was  known,  but  outside,  among  the  ruins 
of  an  old  seignorial  grist-mill.  She  had  not  wished  him 
to  come  to  St.  Hilaire  again.  Her  movements  about 
there  were  often  spied  upon  by  some  of  the  villagers. 
Several  times  when  she  had  gone  walking  alone,  she 
had  found  that  some  child  had  stealthily  followed  her 
—  set  on,  doubtless,  by  his  elders  —  and  was  peering 
from  over  a  rock  or  from  behind  a  bush. 

The  rose  petals  were  being  scattered  over  the  grass. 
She  saw  them  for  the  first  time  and  stopped  the  pur 
poseless  destruction.  But  she  still  sat  where  she  was, 
thinking  desultorily. 

Other  lovers  had  met  in  the  old  moulin  banal. 
Once  a  man  had  killed  his  sweetheart  there.  It  had 
happened  since  Anne  had  come  to  St.  Hilaire.  He 
had  believed  the  girl  faithless  —  mistakenly  —  and  had 
taken  up  one  of  the  stones  which  had  fallen  from 
the  crumbling  walls,  beating  her  on  the  head  with  it. 
Anne  imagined  how  it  had  been  —  the  first  blow,  the 
clinging  to  the  uplifted  arm,  then  to  the  knees,  the 
falling  to  lie  limp  and  stunned  at  the  man's  feet.  It 
would  not  be  so  bad  a  death,  better  than  many,  it 
seemed  to  her,  and  much  better  than  what  was  before 
herself. 

She  looked  over  to  the  top  of  another  hill  she  had 
left  behind.  By  the  roadside  was  a  big  black  cross 


322  ANNE  CARMEL 

of  wood.  It  stood  out  against  the  sky,  marking  the 
parish  boundary.  The  sun  was  striking  the  glass  of 
the  niche  beneath  it,  which  glittered  with  the  reflec 
tion.  She  remembered  how  one  of  the  heartsick  and 
weary  early  fathers  had  said  that  to  the  eye  of  the 
flesh  there  seemed  to  be  in  New  France  only  des  bois 
et  des  croix.  The  woods  —  those  had  been  always 
here,  since  the  Laurentine  hills  had  risen  and  formed 
the  oldest  of  ridges.  But  the  crosses  —  the  first  had 
been  that  one  thirty  feet  high  and  bearing  the  arms 
of  France,  planted  by  Cartier  at  Gaspe",  forerunner  of 
the  thousands  to  come.  Even  far  up  the  Saguenay, 
where  no  priest  had  been  before  him,  a  missionary  had 
found  a  rude  cross.  A  little  band  of  starving  Indians, 
to  whom  Christianity  conveyed  only  suggestions  of 
necromancy  and  flesh-pots,  had  raised  it,  hoping  it 
would  bring  game,  very  probably. 

And  on  the  Isle  of  Demons  had  been  crosses,  too, 
there,  where  the  evil  spirits  had  shrieked  through  the 
woods,  and  haunted  Marguerite  de  Roberval  as  she 
had  watched  die  the  lover  who  had  been  thrown  to 
perish  with  her  for  their  sin,  the  child  born  to  them, 
and  the  woman  who  had  been  her  own  nurse  in  far-off 
Picardy.  She  had  buried  them  all  three  with  her  own 
hands  —  the  hands  which  had  worked  at  broideries 
and  tapestries  in  the  halls  of  the  castle  of  Vimen,  yet 
had  fired  the  arquebuse  in  the  boar  arid  stag  hunts 
of  France,  as  well,  in  merciful  preparation,  it  seemed, 


ANNE  CARMEL  323 

for  that  which  Fate  had  in  store  for  her.  She  had  made 
three  crosses  and  had  put  them  at  the  heads  of  the  graves. 
But  she  had  been  rescued  at  last  after  three  years  by 
passing  sailors,  a  creature  clad  in  beast  skins  and  half- 
savage  from  loneliness,  grief,  terrors,  and  suffering. 
She  had  been  carried  back  to  Picardy  and  had  died 
there,  herself,  long  afterwards.  Had  she  never  wished 
she  might  live  again  through  those  three  years,  hideous 
as  they  had  been,  or  that  she,  too,  had  died  of  cold 
and  hunger  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  far  North,  where 
lay  the  man  she  had  too  much  loved  and  their  child  ? 

Anne  considered  absently  the  pink  petals  upon  the 
grass.  Then  she  brushed  some  from  her  skirt,  stood 
up  slowly,  and  kept  on  her  way. 

As  she  came  near  to  the  mill  she  went  off  from  the 
road,  in  among  the  trees.  People  might  be  coming 
in  and  out  of  the  village,  and  she  did  not  want  to  be 
seen.  Harnett  was  waiting  in  among  the  ruins.  She 
could  see  him  while  she  herself  was  still  hidden  by 
the  undergrowth.  He  was  just  within  the  crumbling 
doorway,  standing,  leaning  against  it,  watching  the 
road.  She  stopped  under  a  tree,  holding  to  a  branch 
with  raised  arm,  putting  off  the  step  which  would 
bring  her  into  sight.  She  knew  now  that  she  ought 
not  to  have  come.  All  the  moral  strength  she  had 
brought  to  her  help  was  going  from  her.  It  did  not 
need  even  his  voice  or  his  touch ;  only  to  see  him  was 
enough  to  bring  her  down  again  weakly  under  his 


324  ANNE  CARMEL 

power,  the  power  which  made  her  take  wrong  for  right 
—  worse  than  that,  knowing  wrong  for  what  it  was, 
accept  it  with  defiance. 

She  would  go  back,  and  she  started  to,  making  a  few 
resolute  steps  by  the  way  she  had  come.  But  she 
turned  her  head,  and  saw  him  again,  standing  there  in 
the  broken  doorway,  looking  up  the  road  with  keen- 
sighted,  hard,  blue  eyes. 

She  was  out  of  the  underbrush,  and  among  the  piles 
of  loose  stones  and  fallen  wall,  before  he  knew  that  she 
was  anywhere  near.  Then  he  heard  one  of  the  stones 
slip,  rattling,  and  he  faced  about  quickly.  She  was 
in  the  shadow  of  a  corner,  by  a  big  oak  that  grew  out 
over  where  the  roof  had  once  been,  long  since.  He 
went  to  her,  and  took  her  into  his  arms.  She  put  her 
own  about  his  neck. 

The  dark  leaves  of  the  oak  were  not  moving.  No 
flicker  of  sunshine  fell  down  through  them,  no  bird 
stirred  in  the  branches.  There  was  not  a  sound. 

Anne  took  away  the  hand  that  was  half  buried  in  the 
coil  of  hair  at  her  neck,  pressed  it  against  her  lips  for  a 
long  moment ;  then  drew  off  from  him,  going  back  a 
few  steps  to  the  wall. 

Harnett  was  not  imaginative,  not  sensitive  to  the  in 
fluence  of  the  unspoken  word,  but  he  felt  an  indefinite 
oppressing  dread,  the  uneasiness  of  one  who  is  facing  a 
higher  moral  force  —  some  intangible  and  resented  con 
trol.  He  went  toward  her  again,  impulsively.  She  put 


ANNE  CARMEL  325 

out  her  hand  to  stop  him,  holding  him  away.  "Not 
again,"  she  begged,  "  it  only  makes  it  harder  for  us 
both."  Her  voice  was  dull  and  broken. 

He  had  taken  the  outstretched  hand,  and  he  kept 
it  in  his.  He  was  thwarted,  and  his  brows  came  to 
gether,  frowning  with  annoyance  and  fear.  "Makes 
what  harder  for  us  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
She  dropped  her  head,  and  looked  away  from  him.  He 
repeated  it.  "  Makes  what  harder,  Anne  ?  Answer  me." 
She  did  her  best  to  get  the  hand  away,  but  he  would 
not  let  it  go,  and  she  was  forced  to  look  up  into  his  face. 
It  was  close  to  hers,  bending  down.  She  gathered  the 
courage  that  was  going  from  her,  and  answered. 

He  let  the  hand  go,  instantly.  The  minutes  passed 
and  neither  of  them  spoke.  It  was  he  who  did,  at 
last,  and  the  only  trace  of  feeling  in  his  face  or  tone 
was  that  they  were  too  unmoved. 

"  You  only  came  to  say  good-by  ? "  he  repeated  it. 
"  Do  you  mean  it  to  be  final  ?  "  She  bowed  her  head. 
He  took  her  by  the  wrist  so  that  she  twisted  in  the 
grasp. 

"  Tell  me  why,"  he  commanded. 

"Because  —  "she  tried  to  free  herself,  "because  I 
must." 

He  saw  that  he  was  hurting  her,  and  loosed  his  hold 
a  little.  "Tell  me  why,"  he  insisted  relentlessly. 
"That  is  no  reason." 

And  it  appeared  to  him  still  no  reason  when  she 


326  ANNE   CAKMEL 

had  tried  to  show  it  to  him.  Even  to  herself  it  was 
not,  put  into  words,  so  good  a  one  as  it  had  seemed 
before.  And  the  explanation  was  halting,  and  in 
complete,  giving,  she  could  not  but  know  it  herself, 
the  effect  of  double  purpose,  because  she  would  say 
nothing  of  Cecily  Thorne  even  by  suggestion.  That 
was  Jean's  own  most  personal  affair,  had  come  near 
to  being  his  shame.  And  rather  than  speak  of  it,  she 
would  have  met  the  death  which  the  habitant  girl  had 
met  here  in  the  ruins.  It  would  have  been  easier 
than  meeting  Harnett's  look  of  angry  suspicion  and 
unbelief.  At  the  best  —  as  he  was  able  to  see  it 
from  what  little  she  would  tell  him  —  she  had  been 
played  upon  with  a  priest's  truly  admiration-compelling 
cleverness  and  understanding  of  character.  Argument, 
entreaty,  and  remonstrance  having  failed,  Jean  Carmel 
had  had  recourse  to  that  of  which  he  could  be  sure, 
Anne's  affection,  and,  yet  more,  her  gratitude,  to 
say  nothing  of  her  somewhat  emotionally  generous 
nature.  It  was  justifiable  enough,  undoubtedly.  That 
much  Harnett  conceded. 

"  I  should  have  done  it  myself,"  he  told  Anne.  "  I 
should  have  worked  on  you  by  any  method  that  would 
have  gained  my  ends.  For  the  matter  of  that,  persua 
sion  failing,  I  should  have  used  force,  had  you  been 
my  sister."  It  had  already  struck  him  more  than 
once  as  extraordinary  that  the  big  priest,  who  had 
denied  himself  food  with  a  strength  of  purpose  border- 


ANNE   CARMBL  327 

ing  upon  heroism,  and  had  swum  the  river  with  great 
strokes,  —  showing  thereby  power  of  will  and  body 
beyond  the  common,  —  should  not  have  constrained 
Anne  to  do  his  wish.  "Nevertheless,"  he  added, 
"you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  rise  to  any  such 
sublime  heights  of  disinterestedness  as  to  be  pleased 
with  your  putting  his  happiness  before  my  own." 
And  he  refused  to  admit  it  to  her  as  anything  more 
than  just  that.  "  Rather  than  let  your  brother  forego 
a  possible  bishopric  in  the  distant  future,  or  sacrifice 
himself  entirely  unnecessarily  to  keep  you  a  home 
which  you  would  never  have  needed,  you  will  let  me 
forego  the  one  happiness  the  world  has  to  offer  me, 
and  sacrifice  me  without  the  least  qualm."  She  looked 
at  him  with  a  misery  which  might  have  stopped  him. 
But  he  went  on  unpityingly.  "As  for  the  other 
vague,  mystery-wrapped  act  of  self-abnegation,  you 
must  own  that,  as  I  cannot  be  told  of  it,  it  can  hardly 
move  me  very  much." 

"  I  would  tell  you,  if  I  could,"  she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  incredulously.  "  No,"  he 
reiterated  it,  "he  calculated  skilfully  on  his  knowl 
edge  of  you,  and  worked  on  you  in  the  surest  way  he 
could  have  chosen,  through  your  sense  of  gratitude." 

She  denied  it  earnestly.  Her  brother  had  not 
worked  upon  her  —  only,  at  any  rate,  in  so  far  as  to 
get  her  promise  to  come  back  to  him  if  she  should 
ever  need  a  home. 


328  ANNE  CARMEL 

Of  the  sacrifices  he  had  meant  to  make  upon  her 
account  he  himself  had  never  spoken,  and  did  not  so 
much  as  know  that  she  had  learned  of  them.  She  was 
ready  to  defend  Jean,  but  it  was  a  new  experience 
for  her  to  protest  her  own  truthfulness  to  any  one. 
Heretofore  those  who  had  not  been  willing  to  take 
her  word,  at  once  and  without  question,  she  had  ignored 
with  complete  indifference.  Yet  she  was  begging  Har- 
nett  to  believe  her,  without  the  details  and  explanations 
which  she  might  not  give.  "  I  have  told  you  all  that 
I  have  the  right  to,  more  perhaps,"  she  urged,  "  and 
it  is  true,  indeed  it  is.  So  far  as  Jean  knows,  I  have 
simply  thought  better  of  it,  changed  my  mind."  Har- 
nett  assented  promptly,  taking  up  the  phrase.  That, 
it  appeared  to  him,  was  exactly  what  she  had  done  — 
found,  when  it  came  to  the  crisis,  that  she  loved 
him  less  than  she  had  for  a  while  supposed,  and  per 
suaded  herself  easily,  as  a  consequence,  that  her  duty 
and  her  inclination  lay  together. 

"  You  are  sincere,  of  course,"  he  granted  her,  "  but 
you  could  never  have  done  this  if  you  had  really  cared 
for  me."  And  there  occurred  to  neither  of  them  the 
fine  unconscious  humor  of  it  that  the  reproach  should 
come  from  him. 

He  went  over  to  a  heap  of  debris  and  sat  upon  it, 
reaching  down  to  pick  up  the  heavy  walking  stick  he 
had  dropped  at  sight  of  her.  He  turned  over  a  stone 
with  the  end  of  it,  a  sharp-pointed,  small  stone,  upon 


ANNE  CARMEL  329 

which  a  man's  hand  could  have  closed.  Anne  won 
dered  if  it  might,  by  any  chance,  be  the  same  one  the 
habitant  had  used,  and  she  felt  a  weary  envy  of  the 
girl  who  had  been  given  unconsciousness. 

"  I  am  to  trust  you  implicitly,"  Harnett  was  saying. 
"  I  am  to  accept  your  word  for  everything,  whether 
I  can  understand  it  or  not.  But  I  may  by  no  means 
have  such  trust  from  you.  You  take  it  for  granted  that 
I  will  tire  of  you  and  send  you  adrift  sooner  or  later. 
You  are  so  prepared  for  it  that  you  even  plan  with 
your  brother  for  your  home  when  it  shall  have  hap 
pened."  He  laughed  angrily.  "It  is  probably  what 
you  have  every  reason  to  think  of  me  — but  it  is  hardly 
flattering.  And  it  hardly  argues  the  blind  faith  of  a 
really  genuine  love."  "You  expect  rather  too  much 
of  a  man,"  he  kept  on  after  a  pause,  "  why  should  I 
believe  you?" 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  asked  him,  "  that  this  is  all 
so  easy  for  me  that  I  am  doing  it  for  my  pleasure? 
Do  you  think  I  would  do  it  if  I  did  not  feel  that 
I  ought  to  —  that  I  must?  Surely,"  she  pleaded, 
"surely,  dear,  you  might  have  some  little  mercy  on 
me,  some  little  pity  for  me."  He  struck  the  stone 
so  sharply  that  she  winced.  Then  he  controlled  him 
self  and  twirled  the  stick  in  the  air  with  exact  attention 
to  its  balance. 

"  It  looks  to  me,"  he  said,  "  uncommonly  like  a  case 
of  cooled  ardor.  Either  you  have  found  that  I  am  not 


330  ANNE  CARMEL 

worth  to  you  so  much  as  your  respectability .  in  which, 
of  course,  you  would  be  quite  right,  though  a  good 
deal  smaller  sort  of  woman  than  I  thought  you;  or 
else,  or  else  I  have  been  supplanted." 

With  a  deliberation  entirely  equal  to  his  own  now, 
she  backed  off  to  the  wall  and  pressed  the  palms  of  her 
hands  against  it.  They  worked,  rubbing  over  the  old 
masonry ;  and  the  muscles  of  all  her  strong,  lithe  body 
were  moving  as  those  of  a  brute  move  while  it  crouches 
and  gathers  rage.  There  were  dull  lights  behind  her 
eyes,  and  her  lips  were  tightening  across  her  teeth. 
"Perhaps,"  kept  on  Harnett,  "perhaps  the  American 
artist  is  more  fortunate  than  I.  I  can  only  offer  you 
my  love.  But  possibly  his  name  also  is  his  to  dispose 
of.  And  a  woman  sets  a  very  just  value  on  the 
name." 

It  brought  no  answer.  She  was  an  uncomfortable 
creature,  this  woman  who  —  he  knew  it  —  would  have 
endured  anything  now  before  she  would  have  stooped 
to  defending  herself.  And  he  had  not  believed  his 
own  taunts,  any  of  them.  He  had  made  them  in  the 
blind  instinct  of  hurting  again  because  he  himself  was 
being  hurt.  He  got  up  from  his  pile  of  stones  and 
walked  over  to  the  door,  looked  aimlessly  out  to  the 
road,  up  and  down  it.  Then  he  came  back  and  stood 
in  front  of  her,  holding  tightly  to  the  stick  with  both 
hands. 

"  Never  mind  all   that,   Anne,"  he  said,  with  frank 


ANNE  CAEMEL  331 

contrition.  "I  don't  mean  it,  or  believe  it.  I  have 
done  you  wrong  enough  already,  heaven  knows,  with 
out  adding  that  to  it.  I  trust  you  in  the  bottom 
of  my  heart,  absolutely.  And  I  always  shall  what 
ever  happens,  whatever  you  do."  The  anger  went 
instantly,  and  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  He  walked 
away,  then  returned.  "  Whatever  your  reasons  are," 
he  told  her,  "  I  accept  them  —  without  any  question. 
And  if  you  had  none  but  that  you  ought  not  to  come 
to  me,  you  would  be  altogether  right ;  I  am  not  fit  — 
and  never  have  been  —  to  get  you  or  your  affection." 

She  threw  out  both  hands  with  a  cry  of  denial. 
It  was  more  than  he  could  stand,  —  so  near  to  her  and 
resist.  He  had  held  to  the  stick  that  he  might  not 
give  away  to  his  desire  to  take  her  in  his  arms  again, 
but  he  flung  it  off  and  it  struck  ringing  against  the 
wall.  "  Anne,"  he  begged  her,  "  Anne,  my  darling, 
don't  send  me  away  without  you.  Don't." 

######* 

The  shadow  of  the  oak  on  the  rough  gray  wall  had 
changed  perceptibly.  It  fell  now  to  the  east. 

Harnett  stood  with  Anne's  hands  in  his  own. 
"Then  if  it  must  be  good-by,  if  it  is  really  to  be 
—  let  me  say  it  like  some  sort  of  a  man." 

He  tried  to  smile  down  into  her  wan,  colorless  face, 
but  it  was  not  a  success,  and  she  had  no  smile  to 
answer.  He  lifted  the  lifeless  fingers  and  kissed  them. 
"  Good-by,  dear,"  he  said. 


332  ANNE  CARMEL 

She  turned  away  and  walked  out  through  the  breach 
in  the  side  of  the  mill,  by  which  she  had  come.  He 
looked  after  her  as  she  went  among  the  trees. 

When  she  had  come  again  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
from  which  she  had  looked  back  toward  St.  Hilaire, 
and  down  on  the  nearer  town,  she  found  the  hidden 
nook  among  the  wild  rose  bushes  once  more,  and  she 
crouched  down  on  the  slate  boulder,  folded  her  arms 
on  her  knees,  and  dropped  her  forehead  upon  them, 
It  was  early  afternoon  then.  It  was  early  evening 
when  she  raised  her  head  again.  She  stood  up  stiffly 
and  looked  around.  But  she  did  not  see  anything  — 
neither  the  stony  pastures  and  full  fields  toward  the 
village,  nor  the  little  creek  of  Les  Trembles  which 
flowed  below,  going  in  the  direction  of  St.  Hilaire, 
a  thin  glistening  streak  —  nor  the  soft  dark  tree-tops 
against  the  shimmering  sky,  and  the  valley  lying 
purple  below.  She  did  not  see  Harnett  where  he 
had  moved  behind  a  low-growing  young  spruce  a  dozen 
yards  away. 

The  midday  had  been  clear  and  fair.  Now  a  dreary 
wind  was  tossing  the  branches  above  her  forebodingly. 
She  had  promised  Amelie  that  she  would  be  back 
by  nightfall.  That  would  be  impossible,  as  it  was. 
She  went  quickly  out  to  the  road,  and  on  toward  St. 
Hilaire. 

Harnett  came  out  from  behind  the  spruce,  and, 
keeping  among  the  trees  and  bushes,  followed  her  at 


ANNE  CAEMEL  333 

a  distance.  She  reached  the  top  of  the  next  hill,  where 
the  big  parish  boundary  cross  stood,  with  its  figures  of 
the  Virgin  and  Child  in  a  little  glass  case,  hung  around 
with  votive  trinkets.  She  stopped.  No  one  was  in 
sight,  forward  or  backward,  along  the  road,  nor  yet 
on  the  great  sweep  of  stone-blue  hills.  She  knelt  in 
front  of  the  cross,  pressing  her  face  against  it,  and 
finding  the  satisfaction  of  a  sentient  nature  in  the 
mere  beauty  of  the  sonorous,  time-enriched  words,  she 
repeated  with  no  great  thought  of  their  meaning,  choos 
ing  the  Latin  rather  than  the  vulgar  tongue  for  the 
solace  of  the  sound — "Kyrie,  eleison.  Christe,  eleison. 
Pater  de  Coelis  Deus,  miserere  nobis.  Virgo  clemens, 
Refugium  peccatorum,  Consolatrix  afflictorum,  ora  pro 
nobis." 

Harnett  waited  with  his  head  uncovered. 

When  Anne  rose  up  at  last,  he  saw  her  open  the 
front  of  the  niche,  take  something  from  off  her  own 
neck,  and  put  it  around  that  of  the  little  painted  image 
of  the  Mother.  She  waited  still,  looking  back  at  Les 
Trembles,  before  she  should  pass  the  boundary  of  the 
parish  and  lose  sight  of  it.  The  little  white  houses  and 
the  silvery  Lombard  poplars  were  still  visible.  Sombre 
gray  storm-clouds  had  banked  up  upon  the  horizon  and 
spread  out  into  a  hot  flush  from  the  sunset  over  half 
the  sky  —  a  fiery  mist. 

But  above  St.  Hilaire  the  darkness  of  a  threatening 
evening  was  settling  down. 


334  ANNE  CABMEL 

Anne  went  on. 

When  she  was  down  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  would 
not  have  been  able  to  see  him  even  if  she  had  turned, 
Harnett  went  near  to  the  cross  and  looked  at  the  gaudy 
little  figure,  with  its  trashy  votive  offerings,  brass  finger 
rings,  miniature  wooden  arms  and  legs  and  hands,  glass 
jewellery,  a  battered,  cheap  watch  —  an  old  pipe,  even. 
But  there  was  a  tiny  gold  chain  about  the  Madonna's 
neck,  hanging  to  the  bottom  of  her  heavy  plaster 
draperies.  He  looked  at  it  closely.  It  was  the  chain 
he  had  given  Anne,  bought  in  Quebec,  and  sent  to  her 
the  first  time  he  had  gone  away.  There  had  been  a 
locket  on  it,  which  had  held  his  picture.  That  was 
not  here.  She  had  taken  it  off. 

He  kept  her  always  just  in  sight.  The  loneliness  of 
these  roads  among  the  hills  might  have  had  dangers  for 
a  woman  at  any  hour,  but  the  more  so,  it  seemed  to  him, 
toward  dusk.  As  it  grew  darker  he  went  nearer,  and 
when  night  had  quite  settled  down,  he  was  so  close  that 
he  fancied  she  must  surely  hear  his  footsteps,  since  he 
had  been  obliged  to  come  out  upon  the  road  now,  too. 

The  fireflies  glimmered  back  and  forth,  lighting  and 
darting  and  disappearing.  A  will-o'-the-wisp  made  its 
weird  light  among  the  trees,  now  here,  and  instantly 
far  off. 

Anne  did  not  go  up  through  the  village  street.  A 
couple  of  lanterns  which  visiting  neighbors  had  hung 
against  the  walls,  beside  doorways,  might  have  showed 


ANNE  CARMBL  335 

her,  or  a  dog  might  have  brought  some  one  out  to  see 
who  was  passing.  She  took  a  back  path  instead,  one 
which  would  bring  her  out  behind  her  own  house. 

There  was  a  lamp  burning  in  the  presbyt&re.  The 
curtain  was  not  drawn,  and  the  light  shone  out  of  the 
window,  across  the  bed  of  red  poppies — a  great  pool  of 
blood-color  in  the  night. 

Anne  pushed  the  rear  gate  and  went  through. 

It  was  by  that  way  she  had  come,  Harnett  remem 
bered,  on  the  evening  when  he  had  first  spoken  to  her  — 
a  tall  gray  apparition,  with  a  crimson  stain  of  bunch- 
berries  upon  her  breast. 

The  gate  creaked  as  it  had  turned  on  its  hinges. 
In  a  moment  the  side  door  of  the  presbyt£re  opened. 
Jean  Carmel  came  out  upon  the  steps,  and  stood  against 
the  oblong  of  light.  He  peered  about. 

Anne  stopped  in  front  of  him.  They  spoke  together 
for  a  moment.  Then  it  seemed  that  Anne  was  swaying 
forward.  Jean  Carmel  lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  carried 
her  into  the  house.  The  door  was  shut  behind  them, 
and  there  was  only  the  glow  through  the  window  upon 
the  leaves  of  the  apple  tree,  and  across  the  bed  of  great, 
deep  red  poppies. 

Harnett  turned  away,  going  back  down  the  path  and 
out  of  the  town. 


THE  HERITAGE  OF  UNREST 

BY 

GWENDOLEN  OVERTON 
Cloth.     i2mo.     $1.50 


A  novel  of  the  army  on  the  frontier  during  the  time  of  the  Indian 
outbreaks  under  Geronimo  and  others  in  the  late  seventies.  His 
torically  the  book  is  valuable  —  though  this  is  nearly  forgotten  in 
its  interest  —  as  a  picture  of  scenes  that  can  never  be  repeated ;  a 
book  which  American  social  literature  could  ill  afford  to  lose  — 
while  it  is  also  an  absorbing  love  story. 


"  A  picture  of  the  great  West  —  the  West  of  the  days  of  the 
Apache  raids  —  clear  and  vivid."  —  Baltimore  Sun. 

" '  The  Heritage  of  Unrest '  is  a  remarkable  book,  and  in  all 
respects  it  is  an  interesting  departure  from  the  current  line  of 
fiction.  It  is  a  story  of  American  army  life  fully  matching  the 
frontier  sketches  of  Owen  Wister,  and  told  with  such  touches  of 
offhand  colloquialism,  now  and  again,  as  might  mark  the  work  of  a 
Yankee  Kipling."  —  New  York  World. 

"In  every  respect  —  character,  plot,  style,  scenes,  descriptions, 
and  personages  —  the  book  is  unconventional  .  .  .  refreshing." 

—  Boston  Herald. 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW   YORK 


THE  VIRGINIAN 

A  HORSEMAN  OF  THE  PLAINS 
By  OWEN  WISTER 

Author  of   "Lin   McLean,"    "  U.  S.   Grant:   a   Biography/'  etc. 

With  eight  full-page  illustrations  by  ARTHUR  I.  KELLER 

Cloth  J2mo  $1.50 


"  There  is  not  a  page  in  Mr.  Wister's  new  book  which  is  not  interesting. 
This  is  its  first  great  merit,  that  it  arouses  the  sympathy  of  the  reader  and 
holds  him  absorbed  and  amused  to  the  end.  It  does  a  great  deal  more  for 
him.  .  .  .  Whoever  reads  the  first  page  will  find  it  next  to  impossible  to  put 
the  book  down  until  he  has  read  every  one  of  the  five  hundred  and  four  in 
the  book,  and  then  he  will  wish  there  were  more  of  them." 

—  The  New  York  Tribune. 

"Mr.  Wister  has  drawn  real  men  and  real  women,  and  a  day  that 
America  has  centuries  of  reason  for  pride  in,  now  passing  away  forever.  .  .  . 
No  one  writes  of  the  frontier  with  more  interest  than  this  young  Philadelphia 
author,  and  no  one  writes  literature  more  essentially  American.  In  The  Vir 
ginian  he  has  put  forth  a  book  that  will  be  remembered  and  read  with  inter 
est  for  many  years  hence.  May  he  soon  write  another  as  good !  " 

—  The  Chicago  American. 

"  Mr.  Wister  is  an  engaging  story  teller.  His  descriptions  are  always 
graphic,  and  he  increases  his  reputation  for  narrative  bristling  with  American 
ism  in  this  volume.  He  knows  the  West  by  long  and  intimate  personal  con 
tact,  and  he  brings  to  his  subject  a  depth  of  appreciation  and  understanding 
unsurpassed  by  any  other  writer  who  has  chosen  the  Far  West  as  a  theme  in 
fiction.  .  .  .  The  story  is  human  and  alive.  It  has  the  '  touch  and  go '  of 
the  vibrating  life  of  the  expansive  American  West  and  puts  the  country  and 
the  people  vividly  before  the  reader." 

—  Philadelphia  Times'  Saturday  Review. 


RONALD  CARNAQUAY 

A  Commercial  Clergyman 

By  BRADLEY  OILMAN 

Author  of  "The  Parsonage  Porch,"  "Back  to  the  Soil,"  etc.,  etc. 

Cloth.        J2mo.        $1.50 


"Will  be  sure  to  make  comment,  especially  in  clerical 
circles.  Its  title  fairly  indicates  its  character,  though  its 
interest  is  of  a  broadly  human  sort,  and  by  no  means  con 
fined  to  the  somewhat  caustic  pictures  which  it  gives  of  some 
conditions  that  are  all  too  prevalent  in  the  churches  of  the 
present  day.  ...  In  short,  the  author  has  shown  a  man 
gifted  with  what  in  business  life  are  real  virtues,  who  makes 
a  detestable  figure  as  a  priest,  and  the  reproach  is  laid  where 
it  belongs  —  not  on  an  individual,  but  on  the  conditions  which 
tempt  such  men  into  the  priesthood,  and  give  them  oppor 
tunities  to  outshine  those  who  have  a  true  spiritual  calling. 
In  this  Mr.  Gilman  is  quite  fair,  and  though  his  book  is  often 
sharp,  it  is  free  from  bitterness,  and  all  the  more  likely  for 
that  reason  to  achieve  the  desired  purpose." 

—  Springfield  Republican. 

"  Mr.  Gilman  has  written  a  book  which  must  be  read  with 
pleasure  by  all  who  admire  the  ability  to  reproduce  phases  of 
contemporary  life  with  etching-like  fidelity.1' 

—  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  Throughout  the  book  shows  the  stroke  of  an  author  who 

writes  correctly  and  with  full  information  about  his  subject." 

—  Chicago  Tribune. 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


RODERICK  TALIAFERRO 

A  Story  of  Maximilian's  Empire 
By  GEORGE  CRAM  COOK 

With  Illustrations  by  SEYMOUR  M.  STONE 
doth.         12mo.        $1.50 


"The  war  history  involved  is  kept  at  all  stages  in  its 
proper  place  as  the  background  of  a  brilliant,  passionate  love 
story,  wherein  the  hero  wins  the  love  of  a  beautiful  Mexican 
girl  and  the  enmity  of  a  powerful  rival  also  in  the  army." 

—  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Every  page  contains  some  incident  or  some  description 
that  grips  the  reader's  interest ;  over  all  is  the  glamour  of 
youth  and  beauty  and  passion  stronger  than  love  of  life  or 
fear  of  death ;  .  .  .  noteworthy  for  the  power  with  which  one 
of  the  great  tragedies  of  the  last  half-century  is  told." 

—  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"Lovers  of  stories  of  action  will  find  here  much  that  is 
thrilling  and  dramatic.  The  book  distinctly  rises  above  the 
level  of  the  sensational  novel.  .  .  .  The  episode  of  the  bull 
fight  is  alone  enough  to  make  the  story  worth  reading." 

—  The  Outlook. 

u  A  vivid  story  of  romantic  love  and  adventure.  ...  A 
tale  of  real  dramatic  power."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  A  rattling  novel  of  love  and  fighting.  .  .  .  Mr.  Cook's 
dialogue  sparkles  with  wit,  his  pathos  is  well  timed  and  mov 
ing,  and  his  love  scenes  are  adorable.  There  are  some  spirited 
pictures  in  the  book."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-32m-8,'57(.C8680s4)444 


Qvfirton  -_ 
y;     Anne  Grrmel 
la. 


PS 

2509 
Sola 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  L  BRARY  FAC  LITY 


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AA     000118666    7 


